


Those Colours We Share

by bereniceofdale



Series: Those Colours We Share [1]
Category: The Hobbit (Jackson Movies), The Hobbit - All Media Types
Genre: Alternate Universe - Post-War, Alternate Universe - Soulmates, Asexual Characters, Bard owns an Animal Shelter, Colours Soulmates!AU, Disabled Character, Fluff and Angst, M/M, Set in 1956, Sexual Content, Slow Burn
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-08-31
Updated: 2016-02-01
Packaged: 2018-04-18 09:06:41
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 17
Words: 84,708
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/4700237
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/bereniceofdale/pseuds/bereniceofdale
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Had anyone told them, Thranduil Oropherion and Bard Bowman would never have believed they would see the world painted in colours again. Until that fateful day of December 1956, when one little boy entered a former soldier's animal shelter.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. The Barking Barge

**Author's Note:**

> Inspired by this [adorable doodle comic](http://acebarduil.tumblr.com/post/127375821644/drawingoddities-and-thats-how-legolas-got-a) by the amazing [Manna](http://drawingoddities.tumblr.com)!
> 
> Listen to the 8tracks mix [here](http://8tracks.com/mylittlekachi/those-colours-we-share#smart_id=dj:14454504).

“Ada, are we there yet?”

Thranduil Oropherion detached his eyes from the view scrolling past the cab's window to look upon his young son; he offered Legolas a warm smile and put his hand on the boy's head, caressing the soft hair that he knew was a beautiful golden blond.

“Just a little longer, Legolas.”

The boy just nodded and snuggled against his father's side. Thranduil's arm closed around Legolas' shoulders in a protective way; he was worried about him. He feared that Legolas wasn't liking it in this new town they had moved in a little more than a month earlier. He hadn't had the chance to meet other children yet, and Thranduil wondered if his son was as lonely as he himself was. It wasn't easy, but it was a fresh start: new patients, new neighbours, new places to see, new friends for his son once the school break was over, a little after the New Year.

They just needed a little change of air, and this place had seemed to be the perfect choice to start anew.

 _“There is nothing worse than seeing the colours fade away when you thought they would stay with you forever,”_ , the elders had told him when he was still just a boy; it had been a way to warn him, to tell him he had to cherish each second he would spend with his soulmate, for life was fragile and even if time and luck were on his side, it would still hurt greatly in the end.

That is exactly what Thranduil had done with the years he had spent with his wife. He had never thought it would end so abruptly; not when he had believed himself capable of preventing it. After her death, he moved to another house as he couldn't stand the memories following him everywhere, shadows on the walls and voices in the air of the place they previously loved to call home.

But it was the same city, and after a few years Thranduil had figured out he needed somewhere different to live, somewhere with a fresher air to breathe, somewhere the past could be left in a corner of his mind and let him have a new start. They had come here, in this pretty town surrounded by forests and fields in which you could escape, appreciate their peacefulness, and it had not taken too long for Thranduil to feel slightly better; he had always been close to nature and enjoyed quietness in his childhood. Life in the city hadn't been bad, just different. He had loved every second he shared there with his late beloved, and his smaller time, though no less worthy, with their son.

“Can we stop at the bakery, please?” Legolas asked after a short moment, looking up at him with his best imploring eyes. Thranduil just rolled his, but there was the shadow of a fond smile on his lips.

“You got ice-cream earlier,” Thranduil pointed out, raising an eyebrow.

“But I'm still hungry,” the boy complained, putting his hands on his belly as he lent an ear with a concentrated frown on his innocent face. “There, did you hear it growl?” He exclaimed then, tugging at his father's sleeve, his eyes shining with hope and mock desperation.

His father laughed quietly and gave Legolas' shoulder a light squeeze.

“Could you drop us at the closest bakery, please? We will walk from there,” Thranduil said to the driver—much to his son's happiness—who gave a nod of his head in the rearview mirror and quickly drew his attention back to the road.

Thranduil paid the man, giving him a reasonable tip, before he took his son's hand in his and entered the bakery (called 'The Shire') they had been dropped in front of. The owner, a small man with curly hair, saluted them with a genuine smile, but it did nothing to prevent Legolas from hiding behind his father's legs.

“Oh, aren't you two new in town?” he asked, though his enthusiasm showed he knew the answer already. He tipped his head to the side as if to try to catch Legolas' eyes and sent him a warm grin, making the boy lessen his grip on Thranduil's pants.

“We are,” Thranduil merely let him know without much more precision, unsure about how to feel about him; he seemed like the nosy type of person, but not the kind that would take advantage of what they might learn.

“You took Greenwood's house, then?” the baker inquired. “It's good to know the old thing finally has new occupants, it's such a lovely place to live.”

“It is indeed.” As he said so Legolas seemed to decide it was safe to get closer to the counter, finding great interest in the pastries behind the glass. Almost literally salivating at the various cakes and pies in display. Maybe coming here hadn't been such a great idea; Thranduil doubted Legolas wouldn't ask to come back.

“I hope you're liking it there,” the baker said. Somehow, Thranduil could tell he was being genuine. “What can I get you?”

Legolas chose a pain au chocolat, Thranduil a croissant (truthfully, he was hungry too), and they exchanged a few formal words before father and son walked away on a good impression, Thranduil taking mental note to consider coming back to The Shire in the future, should the food be as good as it looked. Surely Legolas would love to get a cake from there on his birthday in a few months.

“I didn't hear you, Legolas,” Thranduil said as he closed the door behind him, refusing to give his son his couque.

“Thank you, Ada.” Legolas swayed on his feet, holding up a hand in hope to catch his treat. “I love you.”

Thranduil smiled; he hadn't expected that last bit, but it was always welcomed and made his heart feel lighter. For many years he had worried his son would grow to not love him with his mother gone. He handed out the pain au chocolat to the boy before he patted his head.

“I love you too, son.”

He took Legolas' hand, and they started walking, enjoying their little treat as they went; it would take them maybe thirty minutes to get home from here, but that part of the town was particularly pretty covered in snow, and Christmas lights would soon brighten the streets. They weren't feeling cold in their warm clothes, gloves on and scarves around their necks protecting them from the frosty bite of the winter's wind. 

Thranduil enjoyed those little moments, when they would just get home at their own rhythm, Legolas picking up snow and making little snowmen in his hands that he would leave on people's windows' borders or next to shops' threshold, himself watching over his son affectionately. They liked to guess what the Christmas lights' colours would be like once the sun would set, Thranduil trying his best to explain what red and green and yellow looked like, for his son had yet to see something warmer than tones of black and white; in consequence he explained them with feelings.

 _“Light blue is the colour of the sky. It's like when you feel calm and light,”_ he had told Legolas once, using simple words so that the young boy would understand, and maybe be able to use more of his own imagination. _“And yellow is like hope, when you feel like life is shining upon you. Yellow is the colour of the sun.”_

This little activity of theirs was just as entertaining as it was bittersweet, for it reminded Thranduil of what he had lost forever, just as much as it gave Legolas' new reasons to be amazed; he knew very well that whatever he would say, no matter how much he would tease, the days his son would start to see the world in colours would be in no way a disappointment.

As they approached the end of the street—they lived twenty minutes away from town by foot, in a little house inside the forest; almost like in a fairytale—Legolas let out a small excited squeal and pointed to the building at its corner. It was the town's animal shelter, surrounded by a fenced-in large space where, Thranduil supposed, the dogs could play. It was also somewhere Legolas never stopped asking him to go to, desperate to see the pets up close.

Speaking of which...

“Oh please Ada, can we go see the animals?” He tugged at his father's sleeve (that was something Legolas did quite a lot), making Thranduil roll his eyes once again, but there was no annoyance in them, only fondness. He usually said no because they didn't take this road to go home, but he had promised two weeks earlier and they had some time right now. He didn't see any reason to refuse (save for the risk that he might consider bringing a pet home, given his son's talent at making him yield.)

“Alright, but we won't stay too long, alright?” Thranduil told Legolas, knowing he was absolutely capable of staring at animals for hours. “We can come back another day.”

Legolas nodded vigorously as he gave his father his brightest smile. Then he took the lead, trying to get Thranduil to walk faster by pulling on his wrist (which proved itself difficult, for his hand was way too small to have a full grip on him), before giving up and running a few steps forward, stopping in front of the window and beaming at what he saw inside. Thranduil's gaze went up to the shelter's name written in white letters above the door, which read “The Barking Barge”. Odd name.

“Ada, look! A kitten!” Legolas squealed, pointing at the inside of the shelter.

Thranduil joined his son, squinted as to see better through the glass and the reflect of the setting sun upon it.

And indeed, there was a kitten. On a person's shoulder.

Inside, along with a young woman who had to be an adopter, was a man. He was sitting at a lonely desk, filing some papers, and raising his hand from time to time to pet the little cat who was trying to get on his head. He had mid-length dark, slightly curled hair, and that was all Thranduil could notice before the man looked up and saw them; he waved and stuck out his tongue at Legolas (who giggled) and then sent an amused glance to Thranduil, who immediately backed away from the window.

Well, that was just a little awkward, but Thranduil decided not to dwell on it.

As he waited for his son to be done admiring the place from the outside, he inspected the shelter's façade. It was all quite welcoming, and you could tell it was all well taken care of: obviously the person running the place had to love what they were doing here.

A few minutes later saw the door opening for the woman, now holding a closed straw basket with the kitten inside; she waved them hello politely and walked away as soon as Thranduil held the door for Legolas, who burst in with maybe a tad too much enthusiasm. Thranduil followed suit, just in time to see the shelter's owner (at least he supposed he was) disappear behind a corner.

“Just a moment, I'll be right back!” Thranduil heard the man say.

And a moment they waited, Thranduil absently looking around at the walls covered in cheap posters promoting adoption and animal food, Legolas listening to the barking of the dogs from further within the building, getting more and more impatient at the idea of seeing them and the cats, if the little jumps he made to try and look past the door's window were anything to go by.

“Do you think there are more animals than cats and dogs?” Legolas wondered aloud, his eyes full of hope; it reminded Thranduil of how his son, after catching sight of a rabbit wandering about in their gardens, hadn't stop talking about seeing one up close.

“I don't know, Legolas,” he said. “Be careful though, there might be dragons over there.”

“Really?” the boy exclaimed, “Awesome!”

Thranduil laughed lightly. He wondered what he would do without his son to brighten up his grey days, and went back to his inspection.

The place was clean and most importantly, just as welcoming as its outside; there were well drawn animals getting in a barge decorating the room's walls, which had to be painted in a light colour, for it was of a shade of grey close to white to Thranduil's eyes, dog toys in a basket in a corner, and behind a counter was an area where one could buy everything one needed to adopt an animal, or take care of one.

There was something sad about this place too though; it was filled with hope, but also regrets and bitterness. After all, the beings living here had been abandoned or maltreated after they had given all their love to a family, or believed they would be given such a chance, only to be thrown away and end up in a place they would maybe never leave. Thranduil found it all quite sad, but was glad shelters like The Barking Barge existed.

Footsteps approaching got Thranduil's attention back to his son and where the man from earlier had gone; he appeared in sight again, new files in hand.

“Hey there, little one!” the dark haired man said as he got through the room, ruffling Legolas' hair on his way to his desk. “Are you here to adopt a new friend, aye?”

Legolas' face lit up, but Thranduil sent him a meaningful look.

“We're just looking,” he made clear, though his voice maybe slightly lacked conviction.

The man laughed quietly as he put the files in a drawer, and Legolas faked pouting—surely because he knew his father loved animals as well and that he probably still stood a chance.

“They all say that.” The man smiled, then directed his attention back to the visitors as he turned towards Thranduil and took a few steps forward.

Thranduil would have given a thin amused smile in return if there hadn't been a small lump in his throat as he took notice of the man's light limping; he should have known, of course. He had to be in his mid-thirties, and that usually always meant the same thing for many men in this country. He seemed to stiffen under the weight of the gaze, confirming Thranduil's suspicions, but he didn't have to worry; Thranduil would say nothing of what the man expected and didn't want to hear.

He knew better.

Their eyes met, Thranduil gave a nod of his head, and quiet understanding instantly passed between them.

As well as something else he couldn't quite put words on; a strange feeling rushing through his whole body, telling him to keep an eye on this man until he could know more about him, as well as a soft warmth spreading in his chest. It was absolutely unusual, something he had never felt before yet somehow familiar. It made Thranduil slightly uncomfortable; he didn't like that feeling much.

“May I see the cats, sir?” Legolas asked then, taking his father out of his thoughts (and the other man too, for he blinked and seemed to snap back to reality in the same way Thranduil did).

“Sure.” He sent a smile to the boy, then a look to Thranduil. “Maybe one of them will adopt you.”

Thranduil held his gaze, letting a small smile form on his lips, but unable to shake off the weight inside him. What was also familiar was the man himself; the more he looked at him, the more Thranduil felt like he knew him from somewhere, and he was unable to put his finger on it. But maybe it was just another feeling, nothing more. The thought didn't make it any less disconcerting though.

His eyes were tired but kind, and they had laugh lines at their corners. His facial hair and sideburns didn't seem to be well taken care of, but it suited him, Thranduil decided. The hand he held out to gesture at the door appeared to be rough, and the slight, almost imperceptible shaking of his fingers didn't escape Thranduil's sharp attention.

He looked away as to spare the man his staring and gave his son a fond smile, glad to see him so excited; Thranduil would never be tired of seeing him happy, and would always make sure he was.

Legolas gladly followed him in the hall that had to lead to the area where the cats were kept, hopping on his feet and sending his father glances in which Thranduil could see all his curiosity, as well as a silent demand to get permission to ask the question that had surely been burning on the tip of his tongue.

He nodded, and the boy didn't wait to tug at the man's wrist, for he couldn't reach his rolled up sleeve.

“Sir? Do you have rabbits here?” Legolas asked enthusiastically. “And dragons?”

“Please little one, call me Bard, you're making me feel older than I am,” Bard answered in a gentle voice as he stopped before another door. “And I'm afraid there are no rabbits or dragons here.”

Disappointment showed on the boy's face as he put his hands in his pockets and swayed on his feet.

“But I heard there are some of those in the forest, you might want to keep an eye out.”

If Bard had implied there were rabbits as well as dragons in the forest, Thranduil knew his son well enough to be able to tell he would look for the winged reptiles the most, and certainly come back with some special looking piece of wood, or a weird rock, and pretend he had encountered one of them (and defeated it, of course.)

Legolas beamed upon hearing Bard's words, turning to his father as if to seek confirmation, and Thranduil couldn't find it in himself to deny his words; it only made his son smile wider.

“Okay, before we go in, what's your name fella?”

“Legolas!”

“Well, Legolas, there are a few rules to follow inside.” Bard went on one knee as to be at eye-level with the boy, though with a little difficulty; Thranduil appreciated the gesture. People were not always that considerate with children. “Don't run after the kitties, and don't pet them unless you feel they want to; some are very shy, they could get scared and scratch you and we don't want that, right?”

Legolas nodded vigorously, barely worried by the possibility of being scratched as he was more excited than ever to get inside the room.

Bard grinned and stood up, using the wall as support, before he opened the door and let Legolas in. Legolas entered slowly, his face lighting up in awe at the sight of all the cats gathered there. The 'cat territory' as the sheet patched on the door said, was relatively large and composed of many pillows, cat trees and baskets, as well as balls and feathers scattered everywhere. There was enough space so that the more solitary animals could have some peace, while the others could play or snuggle together.

There had to be at least fifteen to twenty cats, and Legolas didn't seem to know where to start; Thranduil smiled as his son sat in the middle of the room.

“Won't you go in?” Bard told him then. “I wouldn't want any of them to esc—woh there!”

He bent down fast enough to catch a black and white kitten before it could run away and down the hall—though there was no risk it would get outside the shelter with the hall's door being closed as well as the entrance's. He held it close to his chest and rocked it like a baby.

“Wanna hold him?” Bard offered after a short moment, but didn't wait to get an answer before he shoved the little thing into Thranduil's arms.

“Is this the way you convince people to adopt your animals?” Thranduil asked with a raised eyebrow, though his tone let his amusement be heard relatively clearly.

“I have other tricks.”

Thranduil merely rolled his eyes at him, but there was a small, genuine smile lighting up his face; something quite unusual, as it wasn't directed at his son.

“You have a way with children,” Thranduil pointed out in a cool voice, making no move to walk inside as he found himself too busy making sure the kitten wasn't uncomfortable in his arms. If the constant purr was anything to go by, he need not worry.

“I have experience.” Bard looked up to him and smiled, then shrugged as he reached to stroke the little cat's fur. “Two little kids at home.”

Only then did Thranduil notice the wedding ring he was wearing and realized he could have figured it out by himself, if he had paid more attention. His son, the cat, and the strange feeling that wouldn't leave him had just been too distracting.

“Ada, look!” Legolas' voice made him turn towards the inside of the room again; his son was surrounded by five curious cats, as well as two kittens, one of them perched on his shoulder and peering down at him, another getting itself comfortable on his lap.

He couldn't deny the sight could not be more adorable.

“So, are you coming in or not?” Bard asked again, amusement and fatherly understanding shining in his gaze. “Before all my little friends escape.”

As Thranduil passed by Bard and into the room, his heart skipped a beat.

He thought he had seen a spark of hazel in Bard's eyes.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> My graphic for this fic can be found on my blog, [here is the post](http://acebarduil.tumblr.com/post/128054745999/those-colours-we-share-soulmatesau-read-on-ao3) if you want to share it!
> 
> Once again, thank you to my amazing beta [Ada](http://archiveofourown.org/users/SomewhatByronically/pseuds/SomewhatByronically) for editing this chapter!
> 
> Please leave a Kudos and let me know if you've enjoyed this? :) Your comments mean the world to me, however simple! 
> 
> I'm hoping to write something mixing fluff and angst, but we'll see where this all goes (though I plotted most of the story already)!


	2. Mr. Whiskerson

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thank you so much for your lovely feedback on chapter 1, I'm just so glad it piqued your interest! 
> 
> Here's chapter 2, I hope you'll like it!

Thranduil thought he had seen a spark of hazel in Bard's eyes, but it was gone as quickly as it had come. He blinked and looked away, telling himself he had imagined it, just like the warmth in his chest which had started fading away right when he saw that flash of colour, before he approached Legolas. He kept a respectable distance between them as to not scare away the cats, smiling upon his son who looked up to him with something flickering in his eyes.

Maybe he should have brought Legolas here sooner, if being surrounded by animals made his son so happy. His fingers stroked the soft fur of one of the cats who came to greet him, as he focused on the adorable scene Legolas made instead of how he had felt moments before. It clearly wasn’t important, just another of those inexplicable feelings you got sometimes through your life. 

He heard the door close behind him, but no movement followed; Thranduil guessed Bard was probably leaning against it. For a moment he only watched his son pet the cats, his eyes sometimes drifting away to give the sleeping ones a look. All seemed healthy, but some were particularly thin, or even bore surgical scars; he guessed they hadn't been here for a very long time yet.

“Should I take your coats?” Bard asked then as he appeared in the corner of Thranduil's vision.

Thranduil nodded, knowing they would stay here for at least half an hour, knowing his boy. He slowly crept closer to Legolas, taking the kitten on the boy's shoulder and putting it on his lap, so that he could get Legolas' coat, gloves, and scarf off before he took off his own and handed it all to Bard.

“I'll put them in the back.” He smiled, then left the room.

As soon as the door closed behind Bard, Legolas looked up to his father again.

“Ada, can we keep one?”

Thranduil restrained himself from rolling his eyes as his son asked the question he had always known would come. He crouched next to him once again, put on his best serious expression (which wasn't too difficult, really) and took a deep breath before he answered.

“Maybe.”

“Oh, thank—”

“Legolas, I said 'maybe'.”

The boy pouted but nodded nonetheless, still smiling as he turned his attention back to the cats searching for the contact of his hand. Thranduil got up and went to sit on a chair against the wall. He was envisioning it, but he still had to think about it. Deep down he knew there weren't any good reasons that he should say no, but he didn't want to say yes too quickly, if only to show his son he couldn't get everything he wanted so easily.

If Thranduil had to be quite honest, he would feel relatively bad for coming here and leaving without a sincere 'I'll think about it' and maybe the hint of a look meaning that the final answer would be yes. Especially knowing that taking care of the animal wouldn't be a problem; there would be someone at home at least every morning, evening and night, though he wouldn't be there all the time during the day, even once Legolas would be back to school. They weren’t short on money anyway, thanks to the family heirloom.

Thranduil truly believed it could be a good thing in the long term, for his son as well as for himself; most days would be lonely when Legolas wasn’t there. The nights were already fairly heavy on him, after all.

When Bard came back into the room, Legolas immediately turned to him, as if he had been waiting for him, and pointed at a little cat house.

“Why doesn't this one come out at all?”

It seemed Bard didn't even have to check which one of his animals Legolas was talking about, for he gave the boy a sad smile.

“He's been through a lot,” Bard said, “But he's curious and he loves to be pet. If you're quiet and don't move too much, he should come out once he'll feel safe enough.”

Thranduil squinted, trying to see the cat that had piqued Legolas’ interest; and indeed there he was, his bright eyes shining in the shadows of his little hiding place. When he looked at Legolas again, the boy had put his concentrated expression on, and Thranduil knew he had decided that he would get the cat to come out. It would be difficult to get Legolas to leave the shelter if he did not achieve his goal.

“Tea, coffee?”

Thranduil slowly turned to Bard and tilted his head slightly to the side.

“Excuse me?”

“Would you like tea, or coffee?” Bard gave him a small smile as well. “Unless you want to stay here all night, that cat is not going to show himself any time soon if there's the three of us in the room.”

Thranduil studied Bard for a moment, noticing as he did so how if his clothes (pants, a shirt with rolled-up sleeves and a waistcoat) looked classic and well chosen, they were also old and even a little worn out. But he didn't linger too much on them and looked up again to meet Bard's gaze.

“Tea sounds good,” he finally said. “Legolas, behave yourself, I'll be back soon, alright?”

Legolas just nodded, not even looking up from the subject of his attention, making Thranduil sigh (though it was more fondly than anything else) as he followed Bard outside the room and in the hallway. They passed by the reception; a teenager was now standing behind the counter and playing absently with a pen.

Bard waved at him, gaining a smile in return, before Thranduil was lead into another room—which looked like a small kitchen—down the hall that Bard had disappeared into earlier.

As Bard turned to him, he seemed to notice his confusion; Thranduil was sure there hadn't been anyone else in the shelter when they had come in.

“My son, Bain. He was storing products in the back of the shop,” he explained with a shrug. “Is green tea fine?”

“Perfect,” Thranduil merely replied, Bard's answer having gotten rid of his confusion.

As Bard went to prepare the tea (and coffee, apparently, which wasn't really surprising given how tired he looked), Thranduil looked around the room; it was rather small and cosy, with a little table and three chairs, as well as an old, ugly couch—which was without doubt used to take naps. A kind of wooden crutch had been left on it. There was a cupboard, a kitchenette and framed pictures on the walls; most of them were of three different children—including the teenager Thranduil had had a glimpse of—sometimes accompanied by Bard. There were also pictures of him with a woman, but what was most curious about those was how there was none of her and the three ki—

“Milk, sugar?”

Thranduil startled, at a loss for words for a second before he took his control back. Bard still had his back turned on him as he poured the boiled water into a cup.

“Just sugar, thank you.”

“I don't recall seeing your face around here before, mister—?” He turned to give Thranduil a kind look. “What should I call you?”

He gestured to a chair before he finished preparing his coffee. Thranduil sat but didn't answer immediately, for his thoughts travelled back to the woman on the pictures.

“I know your son's name,” Bard insisted gently as he took place too, and as Thranduil finished getting his attention back to him. “Might as well ask for yours.”

“Oropherion,” he said, offering him a small smile as an apology. “Thranduil Oropherion.”

Bard nodded before he took a careful sip of his coffee.

“How long have you been here, Thranduil?” he asked then, and Thranduil couldn't help but notice how he averted to meet his eyes; it made him wonder if it was because he had maybe noticed him looking at the pictures, or perhaps he had thought he had seen something too earlier—

“Just a little more than a month.”

“And do you like it?”

“We do, so far,” Thranduil said and drank a bit of his tea. He was thankful Bard didn't ask for the reason of their moving; it wasn't a secret and he didn't have to lie, but he had never appreciated nosiness. “It's refreshing, and quiet.”

Bard agreed with another small nod, the tug of a smile at the corner of his mouth.

“So, your son works for you?”

“He works with me, aye.” He smiled, his eyes drifting in the direction of the reception. “It was his choice, and I'm glad for it. It was getting a bit lonely here before he joined me.”

Thranduil raised an eyebrow; he assumed that Bard’s wife didn't work here and took care of the younger children at home instead, as it was still often the case those days.

“Well, the animals don't talk, you know,” Bard added with a little laugh before he could point out anything of the sort, making Thranduil chuckle; it was strange, for it hadn't happened in a while. At least not caused by someone other than his son.

Their conversation went smoothly; Thranduil was glad Bard wasn't intrusive. He just talked about his job and didn't ask anything personal, going where their small talk would go. Though Thranduil kept an eye on the clock as he didn't want to leave Legolas alone for too long.

After thirty minutes they had finished tea and coffee, and Bard proposed they'd go back to the 'cat territory', joking they'd better check to see that Legolas hadn't been drowned under tons of overly affectionate cats eager to make of the boy their new master.

“Or slave, depending on your point of view,” Bard added with a grin before he told his son to put the 'closed' sign up, and then led Thranduil back to the room.

The sight they were welcomed with made Bard smile wider, adding more wrinkles to the corners of his eyes. If Thranduil didn't see much difference between earlier and now, it seemed there was one. He guessed it had to be about the small cat Legolas was holding against his chest, its head tucked under his chin, eyes closed and looking peaceful.

The boy turned his head to them and beamed as he saw his father was back.

“Ada, look!” he whispered, looking down at the cat in his arms. “He's so cute and I think he likes me and I like him too, please, please can I keep him?”

And there were Legolas' best puppy eyes.

“How could you say no to that, mmh?”

Thranduil glanced at Bard and rolled his eyes before he looked back to his son.

“I promise I'll think about it.”

That got him another pout from Legolas, but it didn't take him long to start beaming at the cats again.

“It's your decision, but it would be great if you could adopt him,” Bard said from behind him, his tone genuine and slightly hopeful. “He's been here for three years and no one has shown interest in the little guy.”

“Why?” Thranduil asked, turning to face Bard to send him a curious look.

“Look closer,” Bard simply instructed as he leaned against the door. “But slowly, you don't want him to get scared now that he's feeling safe.”

Thranduil raised an eyebrow but did as he was told; he went to crouch beside his son and put a hand on Legolas' shoulder, gaining a big smile in answer, which he sent back.

“He doesn't look like he's three years old,” he pointed out, his gaze not leaving the cat Legolas was gently petting as he murmured incoherent reassuring words.

“He's four, maybe five. But yes, he's a small one,” Bard said. “His name is Mr. Whiskerson, by the way.”

Thranduil raised a skeptical eyebrow at this.

“Don't look at me like that,” Bard mocked being offended, then shrugged and let a new affectionate smile brighten up his face as he seemed to get lost into memories. “My daughter chose it.”

Thranduil smiled to himself, understanding the feeling; the names children gave to their pets were equally terrible and cute as the ones they gave their toys. 

Thranduil inspected Mr. Whiskerson, not taking the risk to touch him in fear he would scratch Legolas should he feel threatened. His big eyes were fixed on him. Thranduil could almost feel his worry and was thankful he felt safe enough in his son's arms not to run away and hurt the boy as he did so.

He stroked the fur of a nearby cat instead, the gesture being welcomed with a loud purr. That is when he noticed Mr. Whiskerson had a missing leg, and scars on his curiously furless belly.

“What happened to him?” Thranduil asked as he looked up to meet Bard's gaze.

“We don't know. But we had to get it removed, or he would have—” Bard explained quietly, a note of sadness in his voice as he sent Thranduil a meaningful look, but then his smile found its way back onto his lips and he shrugged. “It doesn't change much though, you should see him run.”

Thranduil slowly nodded, understanding why most people would unfortunately not be interested in taking him in, and he stood up after he had softly ruffled his son's hair, whose eyes didn't leave the cat in his arms. He looked in complete awe.

“So, will you really think about it?” There was some sort of bitterness in Bard's voice; as if many people said so but had already made up their minds.

He supposed he could understand how Bard felt. It was clear he put all his heart in taking care of those animals. He took them in, made sure they were healthy and loved for all the time they would spend in the shelter. Each person entering this place was a new hope, a chance that one of his charges would leave with a new family; but he surely had more disappointments than success in getting any of the animals adopted.

“Yes,” Thranduil said, letting a small smile tug at the corner of his mouth. “I will.”

Bard seemed to relax a little, hope shining in his eyes.

“I suggest you come back at least one more time,” Bard told him. “Just to test the waters.”

“They seem to get along quite well already,” he pointed out as he glanced to Legolas again, who was kissing the top of the cat's head affectionately.

“I meant, with you,” Bard specified. “If you decide to give him a chance, of course.”

Thranduil stared at Bard for a moment; he could almost hear the man thinking 'maybe coming back will even finish convincing you'. Then he sighed, and nodded his agreement. After all, it would give them something more to do some time in the week. The prospect of seeing Bard again somehow piqued his interest; he couldn't help but remember the feeling that had inhabited him for the first few minutes of their meeting.

But it wasn't all about passing strange feelings and gut; Bard was pleasant to talk to, treated his son kindly, and just seemed to be the kind of person Thranduil could grow fond of. It would be good to get to know someone other than Elrond around here, if he wanted to pass the word about how he was offering his services to whoever would need them whenever Elrond was too busy. Maybe he should even consider talking to the baker, but Thranduil had never liked going to people.

With Bard, he had a good reason to come back and make conversation.

“Can I see the dogs too?” Legolas asked then as he got up, the cat still purring in his arms.

Thranduil wanted to say yes; he knew his son wouldn't ask to adopt one of those as well (he was truly thankful that Legolas was a reasonable child, as far as a children could be reasonable at least), but it was getting late.

“Another time,” he answered, giving his son a soft look. “Why don't you put Mr. Whiskerson down and you'll see him again soon?”

“He'll still be there, I promise,” Bard added in a reassuring way as he disappeared behind the door, mentioning that he was going to retrieve their belongings.

Legolas reluctantly did as he was told and carefully put the cat back on the floor; the cat rubbed against his legs for a short moment before he went to inspect Thranduil's, sniffing his shoes with what seemed to be great interest, which made the boy giggle before a rather impressive yawn stopped him.

“Mmh yes, it's definitely time to go home.”

Legolas nodded, then bent down to pet his cat friends a bit longer, until Bard was back in the room. Only then did he hold up his arms to his father, who agreed to lift him after he had put on his coat, scarf, and gloves.

There was something sad in Bard's eyes as Thranduil turned to him, but he was given a small smile nonetheless and gestured out of the room. Legolas waved at the cats, getting a quiet, fond laugh out of Bard as he led them back to the reception where his son was just coming out.

“Good evening, sir,” he greeted politely, even shaking Legolas' hand (much to the boy's pleasure), before he turned to his father. “Are you okay, da? Do you want me to go check on the dogs?”

“I'm fine, but that'd be great Bain, thank you. I'll wait for you by the door.” He patted his shoulder before he let him go and accompanied Thranduil to the entrance.

“Be safe,” he said as he leaned against the door; Thranduil noticed only then it was something Bard did a lot, but he didn’t have time to put too much thought to it.

He would have offered his hand to shake if Legolas hadn't been in his arms, so he slightly bent his head instead.

“Thank you,” he replied. “See you soon.”

To that he walked away, feeling his son wave at Bard until they disappeared at the corner of the path. It was silent between them for a moment, Legolas being busy playing with Thranduil's hair just like he had always loved to. He knew though that it was just a way for him to not pay attention to how dark it was all around them.

Thranduil had quickly fallen in love with his home's surroundings; the trees were high and proud and he knew the ground to be covered in herbs and flowers once spring came. Surely the sight had to be beautiful when it would be granted its colours.

“He was nice, wasn't he?” It didn't really sound like a question, more like a statement.

“He was,” Thranduil agreed, wiping a lock of hair away from Legolas' hair. “The baker was nice too.”

Legolas nodded, and Thranduil could almost see through his eyes that he was thinking about the pain au chocolat he had eaten earlier.

“But Bard was nicer,” he concluded before he hugged his father, burying his head in his hair. “Ada, will we really adopt Mr. Whiskerson?”

“If you behave well.”

“I always behave well!” the boy protested and Thranduil couldn’t help but chuckle before he kissed his cheek.

“That's true,” he admitted. “Come on, walk a bit will you, we're almost home.”

He put Legolas back on the ground and held his hand as they walked the small road leading to their house, snow creaking under their boots; it looked bigger than it actually was, but it wasn't small either. Ivies had grown on the old brick walls, even getting to the roof and giving the place a kind of fairytale appearance. It was the reason he had chosen this new home: Legolas had instantly loved it.

But maybe the truth was that what Legolas had loved even more was the toboggan and slides in the garden.

He made a simple dinner (pasta and tomato sauce), for neither of them was very hungry before he tucked Legolas to bed and read a story to him. It was his favourite, Robin Hood. Thranduil could almost recite it by heart after all the times he had told it to his son, but he didn't mind and never would: seeing the awe on Legolas' face as he progressively drifted into sleep was worth it all.

It still made Thranduil feel a bit lonely in there, once Legolas was asleep and he had to go to his own room or sit with a book on the sofa. The house was silent and everything felt cold. As he lay in bed and stared in the darkness of the ceiling that night, Thranduil thought about the events of the day; he thought of the good time he had with Legolas visiting his new school and seeing him so glad at the idea of making new friends, of how his teacher had seemed trustful enough, of the bakery and finally, of Bard and his Barking Barge.

He remembered the strange feeling that had faded away as soon as he had thought there had been colour in Bard's eyes. But he didn't want to linger too much on what it could mean; he prefered to tell himself he had imagined it, for that was probably what had happened. It was useless to build up false hopes, or fears. And after all, Bard was married to a wife he loved and who loved him (it was clear as crystal in the pictures) and so, that he had really seen such a thing was highly unlikely.

Thranduil decided to forget about it, and let himself fall into sleep.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I promise you this story is not all about cats! Next chapter will be happening out of the shelter, will include two new characters, realizations, a toyshop and *whispers* _there might be a little Bagginshield moment._
> 
> As always your comments mean so much to me, however simple! ♥ 
> 
> Also, my beta [Ada](http://archiveofourown.org/users/SomewhatByronically/pseuds/SomewhatByronically) is amazing.


	3. The Scarf

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Aaand here's a longer chapter for you today! :D

“Are you sure you don't mind?”

“Absolutely not, Thranduil.” Elrond smiled kindly as he looked behind his shoulder to the children playing in the living room at the end of the hall. “Should I remind you that I am the one who told you that you could count on me whenever Legolas needed looking after?”

Thranduil nodded to that and clasped his gloved hands behind his back, making no move to leave; he knew his friend wasn't done talking with him yet. His hand wasn't even on the handle of the door.

“Beware though, I might ask you the same service once it’s my turn to get the kids their Christmas gifts.” Elrond laughed quietly as he put his hand on Thranduil's shoulder. “I can't promise you they will be as well behaved as your boy is.”

“Maybe I should take Legolas back right now then, I wouldn't want him to be with any sort of bad influence,” Thranduil said with a smirk.

Elrond chuckled, taking his hand away to rest against the door; he seemed to appreciate Thranduil's terrible (in his own opinion) sense of humor.

“I promise you he's in good hands,” Elrond said, his tone as reassuring and as calm as it always was (Thranduil wasn't even sure he had ever heard him get mad). “And I wouldn't give you the burden of taking care of our three little monsters on your own, you need not to worry.”

Thranduil was glad to know Elrond; they had met before the war, at university where they had learned medicine. They had even worked together during the first months of the war, before Thranduil had been sent to the northeast of France while Elrond had stayed in the northwest. They hadn't seen each other since, not until Thranduil had mentioned his desire to move away from the city in one of their letters, and his friend had told him of the house they were now living in.

“What do you think of the town then?” Elrond asked. “You've been here for at least a month after all.”

“I like its quietness,” Thranduil answered, his hands now in his coat's pockets. “And people sound nice enough so far. Not too nosy.”

“Who did you meet?”

“The baker and the shelter's owner.” Elrond raised an eyebrow at this, making Thranduil roll his eyes. “I've met other people, but they happen to be the ones I've talked the most with. You know I'm not one to make too many friends.”

The little smile that tugged at the corner of Elrond’s mouth told Thranduil he maybe shouldn't have worded it that way.

“So you're friends with Bilbo and Bard?”

“No,” he said sternly, though he did believe those people could grow to be friends if he allowed it. Only time would tell about that and he prefered to let things flow rather than trying too hard to make friends, like his family had always forced him. They had never understood how he simply had enough and was perfectly happy with only a few good friends he could trust.

“That's too bad, they're good men,” Elrond said, but didn't try to push the subject, and Thranduil was thankful for it. He then seemed to realize something, for curiosity appeared in his gaze as he tilted his head slightly to the side. “What were you doing at the shelter?”

“Legolas wanted to see the animals,” Thranduil merely replied, as if it was the obvious answer.

“Let me guess, he made you adopt one?”

“I can say no to my son, Elrond,” he replied, his eyes drawn to the boy playing with Arwen inside the house bringing a smile to his lips. “I told him ‘maybe’.”

“So _he_ did get you.” Elrond grinned. “You're going to adopt that pet, aren't you?”

“I might, yes.” It took Thranduil a moment, but then he understood what Elrond had meant; it was Bard who had, indeed, convinced him to adopt one of his rescued animals.

“Don't worry, he got us too.” Elrond laughed again. “We've got a dog and a cat. Both came from Bard's shelter.”

Thranduil guessed Elrond was probably right; he had made the decision by himself, but Bard being—it would seem—so good at putting visitors at ease had certainly helped a little. He went in thinking that adopting an animal was a possibility, but if Bard had been less kind and friendly, he wasn't so sure he would have come out thinking 'yes'.

“I'd better go now, someone needs to make sure the kids don't make a mess of this house,” Elrond said then. He shook Thranduil's hand before it finally found the handle.

“I'll see you tonight,” Thranduil said as a goodbye.

Elrond wished him a good day and smiled one last time before he closed the door, and Thranduil walked away, huddling into his coat and putting his hands back in his pockets. This winter was colder than he remembered them to be; but the snow was welcome, for it made the children happy and allowed them to have a beautiful 'white Christmas', something they were always somehow disappointed to not have when the weather was warmer. 

He went for the town's toyshop, following the way Elrond's wife had explained to him the day before. She had said it was the only one around, and that is was open even though it was Sunday, but that it was also the best she had ever stepped foot in. And so Thranduil went without much difficulty finding his way, lost in his thoughts as he wondered what else he would get Legolas to go along with the single gift his son had asked for.

Walking down the street, Thranduil had seen a man, and it was only when he was a few meters away from the shop's entrance that he noticed it was Bard; he was wearing a dark coat and the icy wind had made a mess of his hair. Bard seemed to be heading to the toyshop as well. He walked with the unusual wooden crutch Thranduil had seen the other day at the shelter. As a doctor (or just an observant person), Thranduil easily made the connection with his limp and the way he leaned against doors and walls as soon as he could.

The cold wasn't kind to many sorts of injuries. If Bard's was from the war, there were more risks it may have not been operated on as well as it was done in hospitals these days. It was probably more painful than it had to be.

Bard looked up then and recognized him, for he smiled kindly and waved with his hand. Thranduil was slightly surprised; if Bard was in pain, he was good at hiding it.

“Oh hello, Thranduil!” Bard greeted, and Thranduil was almost glad that he had remembered his name correctly; people usually got it completely wrong the first few times. If anyone would be the exception to the rule, it would be him.

“Good day,” Thranduil said back, and extended his hand to shake when they came to a stop in front of the toyshop.

Bard shook it eagerly. As neither of them made a move to go separate ways, Thranduil then gave a nod of his head towards the door.

“Going shopping for Christmas too?” Bard inquired as he took his gloves off and tucked them in his coat's pocket.

Thranduil merely nodded before he did the same and opened the shop's door (the bell had to be broken, for it hadn’t rung) and stood aside as to let Bard in first. That gesture got him a smile as Bard stepped in and he soon followed. As many people were having lunch at this time of the day, the toyshop was quiet despite how close Christmas was drawing. Thranduil thought there would’ve been at least a few clients.

The shop mostly sold handcrafted wooden toys and various kinds of animal plushies. Surely he would find something for Legolas in here, along with the plushie his son had specifically asked for.

There were voices coming from the far end of the place, but Thranduil didn't pay them too much attention; until he followed Bard closer to the sound and his eyes caught a glimpse of two people standing particularly close in the threshold of what had to be the stairs leading to the apartment above the shop.

Thranduil recognized the baker, but he couldn't put a name on the other man; he was small, but not smaller than Bilbo, bearded and had his dark hair tied up in a bun. Adding to the closeness, they were also looking at each other, an almost sickeningly sweet love shining in their eyes.

His suspicions finished being confirmed when Bilbo leaned onto his tiptoes and kissed the gruff man's breath away.

Bard saw them too, he had stopped right in his tracks and tensed as he sent Thranduil a worried look; if he raised a skeptical eyebrow in answer, he also understood. Many people weren't open about homosexuality these days. The government certainly wasn't; you could go to jail or worse, should you be caught having a 'homosexual behavior'.

It was extremely irresponsible to be so careless, particularly in a toyshop. Thranduil didn't know them, but he wouldn't wish for anyone to be caught at all, even more in such a place; it would only make things worse.

Bard got the message; he gave him a thin smile before he took a few steps forward, raised his crutch (or whatever it exactly was, Thranduil made a mental note to ask him about it) and slammed it rather violently on the counter.

“Thorin!” Bard called, resting his hand on his hip. “Should I remind you that your bell's still not repaired?”

The two men startled and abruptly turned to them, expressions mortified as they noticed Thranduil standing not far behind a disapproving Bard. They gave each other a look, Thorin's arm tightening protectively around Bilbo's waist, the latter searching Thranduil's eyes; he gave a nod of his head before he picked up a toy and inspected it, as if he had seen nothing. His way of saying that the secret was kept well with him.

“Looks like my break's over.” Bilbo sighed, fear having left his face as soon as he had seemed to realize Thranduil’s acceptance, and that he was only as disapproving of their lack of prudence as Bard was. He got away from Thorin’s grip after he had kissed his lips one last time, and didn't miss the chance to slap the man's arm before he left with a “it's the last time I let you remind me how much I love you while I'm here.”

Thranduil couldn't help his smirk as Thorin approached them, managing to look only partially composed because of the blush Thranduil saw still spread on his cheeks.

“Can I help you, Bard? Sir?” He didn't seem to care much that Thranduil was a new face, and if Thranduil had to be completely honest, he wouldn't complain; he didn't want the whole town to pay attention to him and know who he was, not unless they needed him.

“Nah, I'm just looking,” Bard said before he turned to go look at the shelves of toys, giving Thranduil a roll of his eyes as he passed by.

“Sir?”

Thranduil looked back to meet Thorin's stony gaze.

“You won't say anything, will you?”

It somehow sounded more like an order than a question, and even if Thranduil didn't like it much (at all), he nodded anyway, his own eyes cold, before he went to look at the plushies.

He was interested in the wooden toys though, for all of them seemed to have been done by hand, just like Celebrian had told him. It would have been a lie to say they were not well made. Thranduil decided he would choose one of those to go with what Legolas had asked Santa for; maybe the reindeer one, or the horse. He wasn't sure which one his son would love more.

“Which one is green?” Thranduil asked Bard as he looked through the display of jacket wearing reindeers. He knew his son couldn't see colours yet, but the boy had mentioned how he wished Santa would bring him a new plushie, and that it would be amazing if it could be green. Even though he had no idea what that colour looked like.

Bard turned to him and frowned as he put back a wooden locomotive where he had found it.

“How should I know?” Bard said. “Don't you—”

“Well, because you—” Thranduil started replying and stopped right at the same time as Bard.

They stared at each other for a few seconds as realization crept its way into their eyes. Thranduil remembered about the pictures in the shelter's little kitchen, suddenly understanding why the woman in the pictures with Bard didn't appear in any with the children.

Only then did he also remember about his own wedding ring, which never left him. Surely they had thought the same thing of each other, and only understood their mistake now. They had assumed too quickly, and had been rewarded with a slightly uncomfortable moment.

Thranduil didn't apologize, or offer condolences, and neither did Bard.

But what he did offer was a sad, small smile, which Bard returned, and that was enough.

Thranduil went to ask Thorin about the colour instead, explaining briefly his son's request and asked for it to be wrapped, before he started looking for a wooden stag with articulated legs—he thought Legolas would like it more than the horse—amongst the many toys of the shop. He risked a look at Bard, who had chosen two different plushies of mid sizes, just as he looked up to him.

“Do you know what's good about shades of grey?” Bard didn't wait for Thranduil's answer before he continued. “I can get blue for my girls, and pink for my boy, and no one’ll make any comments about it, after all, it's not like I or they could have known, right?”

That got a small laugh from Thranduil, who shook his head.

“I suppose so.”

“I got a nice dress for Sigrid,” he said almost to himself. “And Tilda wanted overalls.”

The fondness in Bard's voice was soothing; it made Thranduil think of his son's reaction when he would open his gifts on Christmas Day. How he would beam and throw himself in his father's arms.

“What are you getting for your son?” Thranduil asked, almost surprising himself by how he continued the conversation instead of falling into silence; but he liked Bard. His friendliness, his love for his job and his obvious love for his children. That he was someone who could understand what Thranduil had been through all those years ago was another reason he was curious about him.

“He doesn't know yet, so it'll have to wait,” Bard said, eyeing the reindeer Thranduil had just picked. “Very nice one.”

“Mmh, yes, I'll take this one,” Thranduil agreed before he went to the counter, Bard not far behind him.

Bard asked for the gifts to be wrapped and kept in the shop until Christmas would be closer; his children were at home, he explained, and he doubted they wouldn't notice him slipping the gifts in. As for Thranduil, he had to pick Legolas up later today and so, had the time to go home and hide them before he had to be back at Elrond's for dinner.

He still hadn't any idea why he had accepted the invitation, but he didn't mind that much; Elrond was his friend, Celebrian was kind, and Legolas already loved spending time with their children. It was good to know he wouldn't be alone at school. Some time with them would surely do him good.

“Will you have lunch with me?” Bard asked as they were going out of the shop and back in the frozen air.

Thranduil turned to him and frowned.

“I'm sorry?”

“Will you have lunch with me?”

His expression turned to confusion; they barely knew each other, why would Bard ask someone he had only met twice to spend time with him?

“Why?”

“Because Bain promised the girls he would cook them something they like, which means I don't have to be home to do it myself,” Bard explained. “And honestly, I'm starving. It would just be nice to not eat alone.”

Thranduil stared at Bard for a moment before he understood, and decided his intentions were honorable. Bard seemed as lonely as he was; somehow Thranduil found it unsurprising from him to ask someone he was getting along well so far to share lunch with him. Even himself, who generally liked quietness and not being around too many people, appreciated spending an hour or two with Elrond.

Surely that was what Bard wished for. Or maybe he wished to get to know Thranduil; if unsettling, for it had been a long time since such a thing had happened to him, ultimately he could also accept it. After all, saying that he didn't enjoy talking with Bard and his kind familiarity would have been a lie. He remembered the good feeling which had been telling him to learn more about Bard, and how even when it had left, Thranduil had found he still wished to do so, simply because Bard was somehow worth his interest.

And it was still the case now.

It was a mix of curiosity, gut and benefit. Curiosity because he was genuinely interested in him, gut because of how he felt deep down that it wasn't a bad idea, and benefit because he knew Bard could help get the word about his services to spread. But maybe, just maybe, there was the touch of a need to know someone new, and Bard seemed to be the good person for that. He had come to this town to start anew, hadn't he? Surely he could make an effort for once, and try to make a friend.

And Bard had to be special, for making him change his mind so easily.

“Alright,” he agreed. “Where do you have in mind?”

“The pub serves good food,” Bard offered, and laughed upon seeing Thranduil's frown. “It's a quiet place at this time of the day, I promise.”

After a small sigh Thranduil nodded, and Bard led the way, a smile plastered on his face. He told Thranduil that the pub was ten minutes away. On the way, Bard took the occasion to tell Thranduil about all the shops and restaurants they passed by; about how it was best to avoid a butchery owned by a man called Azog but that the one not far from the shelter was fine, that he probably wouldn't like Radagast's restaurant, and that the town's library had all the books he might desire.

They stopped in front of a rather welcoming pub; it wasn't as dark as Thranduil thought it would be, and as Bard had said, there wasn't any loud chatter coming from the inside.

As they stepped in, they were welcomed by a man about Bard's height, with long curly dark hair.

“Hello Bard!” he greeted, seeming enthusiastic to see him there.

“Hey, Arathorn.” Bard shook his hand above the bar. “This is Thranduil, he's new in town.”

“Welcome, then.” The man smiled before he gestured them towards one of the booths. “The usual?”

Bard nodded and waited next to Thranduil as he made his choice amongst the few dishes the pub had to offer. He finally opted for something simple; a toasted cheese and ham sandwich, one of Legolas’ favourite meals. 

He then followed Bard to the booth where he sat with a sigh, hand on his knee. Thranduil took place opposite him, his eyes not leaving the man's face as he put his bag of gifts and his coat next to him.

“No painkillers?” he asked casually as he took his gloves off.

Bard shook his head with an half smile, but Thranduil could see how his shoulders had slightly tensed.

“No, I'm used to living without those, to bear the pain,” Bard explained with a shrug, but he didn't seem comfortable with the subject. “I don't really need them, unless it's a very bad day. Luckily those don't happen a lot.”

“I could prescribe you some, if you wish.”

Bard frowned to that, leaned against the back of the booth and crossed his arms against his chest.

“You're a doctor?”

“Yes.”

Bard instantly relaxed, as if talking about how he felt with a doctor was different than with a stranger, or an acquaintance. Thranduil guessed it was probably the case; as someone who had seen many in his life, he didn't take pity on old injuries and illnesses. It had been his daily life for a long time, and Bard needed not to worry he would treat him any differently.

“Thank you for your offer,” Bard said, his tone genuinely thankful. “But Elrond is already taking care of it, I have everything I need.”

“Good, then.” Thranduil paused a second before he spoke up again, believing it was the perfect occasion to bring up what he wanted to ask. “I'm here to more or less retire, actually.”

If Bard thought he was still quite young to retire, he said nothing of it; he just raised a curious eyebrow as he put his gloves aside as well. This reinforced Thranduil's idea that Bard was worth spending time with. People were usually far too intrusive.

“But if Elrond is too busy, people can come to me if they want.”

“That's good to know.”

“Could you pass the word, by any chance?” Thranduil asked with a small smile. “I know Elrond is already doing so himself, but you seem to know many people around here.”

“I know everyone who's got a pet.” Bard smiled back. “I'll do that for you, sure.”

As he said so, their lunch arrived; Bard's was scrambled eggs with mushrooms, accompanied with lettuce and tomatoes. They made little talk as they ate, and Bard patiently waited for Thranduil to finish before engaging in proper conversation again.

“Convinced, or will you never step foot in here again?”

“I just might come back some day.”

Bard laughed quietly until he straightened in his seat and looked serious again, as if he had been waiting to say something important to him for all that time. At least that was the feeling Thranduil got.

“So, about the cat, have you changed your mind or—?” Bard asked, no emotions showing on his face but his right hand closed tightly over his left.

“Why would I—” Thranduil remembered then that it had been five days since their visit to the shelter. Coming to the town, he had thought he wouldn't have much to do, but Legolas and Elrond had proved him wrong. He hadn't seen time pass, even though his son had kept asking when they could go back so that he could 'play with Mr. Whiskerson' and see the dogs. “Oh, no, I've just been busy. I would have loved to come sooner if possible.”

Bard let a grin show on his face again, apparently reassured. He took a sip of the glass of water he had ordered before putting it down again and letting his gaze met his; he froze for a second, his eyes slightly widening until he shook his head and looked away.

“Uhm, so, when you visit again—” He paused, as if to clear his thoughts. “I could take Mr. Whiskerson in the break room while Bain shows the dogs to Legolas?”

Thranduil slowly nodded; he didn't like the idea of leaving his son in the care of a teenager around dogs of all sizes at first, but the more he thought about it, the more he believed Bard wouldn't offer this possibility if he didn't think it was safe for an 8-year-old. Surely Bain knew how to take care of young children, his sisters didn't look much older than Legolas after all.

“I think we'll come on Tuesday, if that's okay for you.”

“Sure, perfect.”

It was heartwarming, how Bard cared about giving his rescued animals a new home. Thranduil didn't know him well yet, but he thought safe to believe he probably cared more about their well-being and his children's than his own. Which was a good thing, as much as it could be a bad one. But if Bard had gotten this far, Thranduil guessed it was because he managed things well.

They talked for what they thought was only a short time, Bard getting a few smiles out of Thranduil, until Arathorn approached them to tell them they'd been here for two hours 'in case you had somewhere to be, you know'. And indeed, it was time for Thranduil to find a cab and go home; he needed to hide Legolas' gifts as well as do some cleaning up around the house before he'd have to go have dinner at Elrond's.

Bard waited with him for a cab to pass by under the falling snow, insisting he didn't mind and that he hadn't given his children any time in particular. A few minutes didn't change much anyway.

But Thranduil knew it was worth more than it appeared. The cold wasn't kind to him, and neither was standing still without anything to lean against. He didn't have to, he could go home and get warm, but Bard was determined to keep him company.

“Don't you have a scarf?” he asked after a minute, pointing to Thranduil's bare neck. Bard seemed almost sheepish for not having noticed earlier. 

“Uh, yes.” Thranduil straightened his coat's collar. “I forgot it at home.”

There was a short silence before Bard took his own off and extended it to him, under the gaze of a bewildered Thranduil. He couldn't be serious.

“Come on, take it and put it on,” he said with a small smile. “I stand the cold well, you can give it back to me when the cab arrives.”

Thranduil shook his head, made a dismissive wave of his hand.

“You're shivering, I'm not,” Bard pointed out. “Don't make me put it on for you.”

Thranduil shot him a look, an eyebrow raised, resisting the urge to protest by saying he was not shivering (a lie, of course) because of the frosty bite of the wind on his exposed skin. Surely he wouldn't dare. It was true he felt cold, colder than earlier, but he wouldn't let him—He blinked, taken aback when Bard appeared right before him, almost into his space and the scarf was suddenly around his neck. Then Bard was back where he had been a few seconds ago, as if nothing had happened, hands stuffed in his coat's pockets. 

Thranduil stared at him, at a loss for words—which was something quite unusual.

“So, where were we?”

Bard's smile was as warm as his scarf was, and for the five minutes that followed until a cab passed by, it only left his face when he seemed to realize such a gesture of kindness, from someone he was just getting to know, was foreign to Thranduil. Surely he wondered if he had done something wrong, but he hadn't; he had just shown Thranduil how lonely he had been all those years. How he had forgotten what it felt like to have a person, close or not, caring for his well-being.

When he got into the cab and watched the man disappear from view, Thranduil realized Bard's scarf was still around his neck.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Don't worry, colours will come! My way of seeing this soulmates concept is just making me take it all rather slowly. All good things come to those who wait! :3
> 
> I should also mention this story won't be from Thranduil's POV all the time. I'll write under Bard's in the fifth and sixth chapter :)
> 
> And yes, Thorin owning a toyshop is now a thing in this fic, fight me.
> 
> Thank you to my beta [Ada](http://archiveofourown.org/users/SomewhatByronically/pseuds/SomewhatByronically) for her amazing work!


	4. See You Tomorrow

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Oh well, this one ended up as long as the third, oops.

“Ada, wake up!”

Thranduil grunted, rolled over in bed and buried his head in the pillow as Legolas bounced up and down on the mattress, excitedly telling him to get up because they were going to see Mr. Whiskerson and all the dogs today and he just _couldn't wait_.

“Five more minutes, Legolas,” Thranduil muttered, protecting his head from the little hands trying to get his hair out of his face.

“But you said we would go early!” Legolas complained. He let himself fall flat on his father's back. Thranduil huffed under the sudden weight, but somehow managed to chuckle lightly.

While that was true, it had been a cold night and it was rather warm under his sheets, making it even more difficult for Thranduil to find the will to get out of bed.

“‘Early’ doesn't mean before it's actually open.” He sighed. “We'll have breakfast first, alright?”

He felt Legolas nodding against his shoulder and for a moment like that they stayed, Legolas playing with his father's hair, until Thranduil found some of his strength and straightened up despite the weight of his son on his back. Legolas chuckled, got up and ran out of the room, his little feet making the stairs creak.

Thranduil smiled to himself as he followed Legolas to the kitchen. He prepared some eggs, sausages and beans in tomato sauce and listened to his son's babbling about the shelter and all the fun they were going to have. The boy's excitement over the animals was almost contagious, but Thranduil had other matters to think about.

“Do you think Bard has big dogs?” Legolas asked after he had swallowed his mouthful of eggs, his eyes sparkling with enthusiasm.

“I suppose so,” Thranduil answered absently, his mind going back to Sunday's events; he made a mental note to bring Bard his scarf back.

He still wasn't able to understand why Bard had acted in such a way; he knew it wasn't anything out of the ordinary, but the question wouldn't leave Thranduil’s thoughts. It had been a long time since anyone but Elrond had cared about him. Since he had been showed kindness. But maybe it was simply because he hadn't actually let anyone be friendly towards him, keeping his relations professional and devoting his free time to Legolas only.

But Bard? He was letting him share time and conversation so soon after their meeting, and somehow he hadn't thought for one second it meant they would befriend each other. Or, he had, but couldn’t actually believe it would happen. Yet here they were; making a friendship possible, and Thranduil found he didn't mind. In fact, he even looked forward to it, and was surprised to feel slightly excited at the idea of seeing Bard again. 

“I want to see a big dog,” Legolas repeated to himself, snapping Thranduil back to reality. Then he looked up to his father again, his face and eyes as innocent as a puppy's. “Ada, did I behave well?”

Thranduil sipped his tea before he answered, laying on his son a soft gaze. He remembered what he had said a few days ago on their walk back from the shelter.

“Quite so,” Thranduil confessed after a minute, unable to keep his silence upon seeing his son become progressively annoyed.

“Does that mean we'll adopt Mr. Whiskerson?” Legolas asked, his tone full of hope, before he drank from his glass. 

“Mh-mmh.”

Thranduil took a napkin and wiped his son's mustache of milk. Legolas frowned and tugged at his father's sleeve, looking rather offended to not get a proper answer.

“Ada!”

“Yes, yes.” Thranduil laughed and ruffled the boy's hair. “We will.”

Legolas' face broke into a huge, bright smile. He got up from his chair and went to hug his father's waist, a torrent of thank you's flowing from his lips.

“Don't thank me already,” Thranduil said, smiling upon his boy. “I haven't passed the test yet.”

“He already likes you,” Legolas assured as he sat again and ate what was left of his sausage. “He told me so.”

“Oh, did he?” Thranduil smirked, unable to stop fondness from warming up his heart.

“Yes.” Legolas grinned. “He meowed when I asked.”

“I don't have to worry, then?” Thranduil smiled again when Legolas shook his head enthusiastically. “Come on, go clean yourself up. I'll follow you and then we'll go.”

Legolas let out a small squeal before he hurried out of the room, making Thranduil roll his eyes affectionately. He stood up and washed the dishes, then went upstairs and picked out clothes for his son. He helped Legolas put them on before he got himself ready as well.

It seemed Legolas couldn't stop talking; he was never running out of things to tell his father as they left their home and walked the road to The Barking Barge. Thranduil thought about getting a car (he’d had no need for one back in the city; it was easier to travel by cab or foot), after all he had the means. But he liked having this little walk to share with his son every day they decided to go into town, trusting their coats, gloves and scarves to keep them war—

“Oh, no,” Thranduil muttered, and Legolas sent him an interrogative look. “I forgot Bard's scarf.”

Legolas shrugged as if it was of no importance and picked up the conversation where he had left it, expressing how eager he was to see all the kind of dogs living in Bard's shelter and reassuring his father he would, as always, behave well and wouldn't ask to take a dog home too because he 'didn't want Mr. Whiskerson to be scared or hurt' and although Legolas liked big dogs, he 'didn't think he would trust him again if he brought a big dog home as well'.

Thranduil was annoyed he had forgotten Bard's scarf; he would have to apologize, and make sure not to leave it behind the next time they met. He knew Bard wouldn't mind though; he didn't seem to be one to care too much about such simple things. Something even told him he could probably keep the scarf and Bard wouldn't ask for it back; but Thranduil would avoid that. He didn't like to have debts of any kind.

Once they arrived at the shelter, they were welcomed by Bain, who offered Legolas a grin and crouched to shake his hand. Legolas giggled, and Thranduil felt a little more reassured about the teenager's ability to take care of his son. Just like Bard, Bain knew how to deal with children; surely Thranduil had nothing to worry about.

“Good morning sir,” Bain said, nodding to Thranduil politely.

“Good morning,” he greeted back before proceeding to take off Legolas' coat. “Where's your father?”

“He's already in the break room,” Bain said and he gestured to the hallway, taking Legolas' hand. “Come on Legolas, are we going to see the dogs?”

Legolas waved at his father before he gladly followed Bain, leaving Thranduil alone in the reception. He let out a small, fond sigh as he walked down the hall to the room where he had had tea with Bard a few days ago.

Thranduil knocked, but no one answered.

Frowning, he opened the door anyway.

“Ba—” He stopped right there as his eyes fell on the couch at the other end of the room; Bard was asleep, a hand on Mr. Whiskerson who was drowsing on his chest.

Thranduil closed the door as quietly as possible as the cat opened his eyes and looked up to him, but didn't move; he just stared, as if waiting for something. A reason to run and hide, or an excuse to start dozing again, Thranduil couldn't know.

Bard probably hadn't slept much during the night, to have fallen asleep again so early in the day. The clock on the wall read only ten in the morning. But Thranduil was here for a reason, and no matter how peaceful Bard looked, laying there on the couch dressed in another simple shirt and waistcoat, he couldn't just watch him and wait until he woke up.

Thranduil hesitated to approach after he had put his coat and Legolas’ on the back of a chair, and his hand stopped an inch from Bard's shoulder. The cat hadn't moved, but looked tense and ready to run, his bright eyes following Thranduil's every movement. It made him pause and look upon Bard just a little longer. His thoughts travelled back to the Sunday they had shared together, talking in the warmth of the pub before they had left and Thranduil had forgotten to give Bard his scarf back.

Thranduil straightened up, his gaze falling on the framed pictures on the walls. He guessed why there weren't any of Bard's wife with the children; he guessed Bard feared the memories hurt the children when they came here, or that the youngest had never known her mother. Surely it would be difficult for her to see pictures of her siblings with the mother she had never had. It brought an ache to Thranduil's heart; Legolas hadn't known his either.

He found it somehow amusing they had both concluded each other's wives had been their soulmates and coloured their worlds; it wasn't that rare for people to love and marry someone whose soul didn't match their own, for not everyone was as lucky as Thranduil had been. 

He looked upon Bard again, absently rubbing his wedding ring, before he sighed and decided he had waited long enough. Sometimes it wasn't good to be left alone with old thoughts that could turn painful if you lingered too long on them.

Slowly, so as to not startle Mr. Whiskerson or Bard, Thranduil reached for the man's shoulder and gave it a light squeeze. His reaction was immediate; he would have bolted upright if Thranduil hadn't softly but quickly put his hand on his collarbone to keep him in place. But it didn’t stop Bard from harshly catching Thranduil's wrist.

Bard blinked and calmed his breathing as realization crept its way into his eyes. His other hand instinctively reassured the cat by stroking his fur. 

“Thranduil?”

“Bard.” Thranduil smirked, and he knew himself to look calm and composed even though his heart was beating slightly faster; he hadn't expected such a reaction, but knew he maybe should have.

Bard let go of his wrist and winced as he sat up, holding Mr. Whiskerson.

“Sorry,” he muttered, patting the cat gently. “Hi.”

“It's okay.” Thranduil tried a small smile to emphasize his words as he took a few steps away from the man and went for the kitchenette. “Coffee, I suppose?”

“I'll do it,” Bard protested, getting up after he had put Mr. Whiskerson on the couch. He immediately jumped off it and hid in a corner of the room; Bard hadn't lied when he had said having three legs didn't change much to how he ran.

“I don't mind,” Thranduil insisted.

Bard shook his head and gestured to the couch.

“Sit there while I make your tea.” He then gestured to the cat. “He'll come when he'll feel safe again.”

Thranduil reluctantly did as he was told; he didn't want to upset Bard any more, for he could see the tension in his body. Normally he would have insisted and done whatever he had wanted. Thranduil didn't need to ask about what was on his own mind though, for after a short moment Bard turned away from the boiling water and looked at him in the eye.

“I have the bad habit of falling asleep there after a long night,” he simply explained, but then worry showed in his gaze. “Did I hurt you?”

Thranduil looked down on his wrist, took it in hand, and rubbed on the skin.

“No, not at all,” he said, sounding as reassuring as he could (for it was the truth), before he insisted. “It's alright, really.”

Bard seemed to relax, his shoulders losing their stiffness. He nodded and poured boiling water into cups; two minutes later Thranduil had a steaming cup of tea in his hands, the pleasant fragrance of green tea in his nose and Bard sitting in a chair in front of him, his eyes going from Mr. Whiskerson to Thranduil.

“I don't think it'll take too long,” he said, with a nod of his head towards the cat. “You're calm, and he's curious. That usually works well.”

“I'm patient,” Thranduil replied, carefully sipping his tea. “Legolas can play for hours with animals anyway. I have time.”

It took fifteen minutes for the cat to get closer again; he rubbed at Bard's legs first, his purr loud and his meows insisting. Bard rolled his eyes at him and told him that no, he couldn't get any more food right now. Of course, Mr. Whiskerson was having none of this and kept searching for attention.

“Shouldn't you keep an eye on your shop?” Thranduil asked Bard to break the (though comfortable) silence that had settled between them. He fixed his eyes on the cat who was slowly approaching him and now sniffing his shoes, just like the first time they had met.

“I'll hear the bell.” Bard waved off the worry and shrugged, then pointed to the cat. “See, he likes you.”

After a little while of small talk, Mr. Whiskerson was finally back on the couch; he stayed at the far end of it for a few minutes before he went to look for Thranduil's hand and let him stroke the fur of his shoulders. It made Thranduil smile; he had always loved cats, but never actually adopted one. He believed Mr. Whiskerson would be a most welcome addition to their very small family.

As he let the cat get familiar with him, Thranduil listened to Bard; he talked of his children with enthusiasm and love, but complained he was too short on money to spoil them for Christmas, even though he knew they would be happy with what they would get. It crossed Thranduil's mind to buy more sweets than he had intended to and give them to Bard. His eyes wandered around the room until they fell on the crutch that had been left against the couch and despite himself, his thoughts concentrated on it instead of the conversation. 

Bard had stopped talking, looking upon Thranduil with an eyebrow raised. He stirred his coffee with slightly shaking fingers, but didn't seem to mind how Thranduil was inspecting the crutch.

“I've never seen a crutch like this one,” he merely said as he took the object and turned it over in his hands.

“That's because I made it.” Thranduil raised an eyebrow, mimicking Bard's previous expression. Bard offered him a small smile. “I learned to work with wood when I was younger, before I met my wife and started this place.”

Thranduil nodded and inspected the crutch more closely; there were patterns of waves and branches on the surface, some clumsily made, though it added to the charm. He tested the handle; it was surprisingly comfortable, even for Thranduil's hand. He guessed it had been made to fit Bard's perfectly.

“I felt too young for a cane, and crutches look terrible,” Bard explained further. “I had time to spare so I designed one for my needs. It took me a few tries though.”

“It's beautiful work.”

Thranduil put it aside and his hand found the cat's fur again. He looked up to Bard, who thanked him with a nod of his head, his lips forming the ghost of a smile before he finished his coffee. Thranduil's tea was now cold, forgotten when he had started paying attention to Mr. Whiskerson, but he drank it anyway.

Thranduil’s eyes fell on the pictures on the wall again for a second, and he remembered another question he had meant to ask.

“Your daughters, do they go to Saint Emily's school?” he inquired.

“Yes.” Bard tilted his head slightly to the side as he put his cup on the table. “Legolas goes there too?”

“After the school break, yes.”

Thranduil felt relieved. Legolas would already know Elrond's children, and he didn't doubt he would get along well with Bard's too. Things were really looking up for his son, and Thranduil was comforted he had made the right choice by choosing to live in this town. And somehow, he found things weren't bad so far for himself either.

Yes, he _had_ made the right choice.

He noticed Mr. Whiskerson was drowsing on his lap, and Bard meant to ask something, but they heard the shelter's door bell ring. Bard excused himself and left Thranduil alone with only the cat and his thoughts for company.

Thranduil hoped Legolas was having a good time with Bain and the dogs, which he could hear barking, even from here. But he didn't have much doubt about it; he knew his son wouldn't even realize the passing of time. He wasn't lying when he said the boy could spend hours with animals.

Thranduil’s eyes kept drifting between the door of the room and the quiet cat on his lap. Thranduil felt sorry for him, as he looked upon his stump and wondered what had happened to him. He was glad Legolas had chosen Mr. Whiskerson amongst all the animals, though he believed all of them deserved a proper home.

Thranduil sighed; he felt lonelier than usual and hoped Bard wouldn't take too long, for he enjoyed his company. The idea was unsettling, but Thranduil tried not to put too much thought into it; he had realized the more they talked, that he was already finding a potential friend in Bard and wished for things to keep going in that direction. It hadn't happened in a long time for Thranduil to trust someone so quickly; the first had been Elrond, who had become his best of friends. Then his wife a little later, who had, after a few weeks, started to colour his world.

What Thranduil noticed too—and quite disturbed him the more he thought about it—was that he was definitely sure he had seen Bard before. But there were no flashes, no memories; just a feeling, telling him that the day they had met had actually not been the first time he saw his face. Thranduil wondered if it was just him, or if Bard felt the same; if he did, he didn't let it show. Thranduil was curious about it, but wouldn't let it take too much space in his busy thoughts. Maybe that was just what it was; a feeling, and nothing more.

Bard came back a few minutes later. He apologized for the wait, before his gaze fell on Mr. Whiskerson and it softened a bit more.

“Are you convinced, then?” he asked from the threshold.

“We'll take him,” Thranduil said without hesitation. He had had enough time to think about it over the past few days, but he had made his choice from day one; there was no need to pretend.

“Thank you.” Bard's smile was genuine, lighting up his face in a beautiful way. “Do you want to stay a little longer, or you can follow me and we'll fill some papers?”

Thranduil winced, which made Bard laugh, but he gently put the cat aside and stood up anyway.

“I know, I know,” Bard said, briefly patting Thranduil’s shoulder as he passed by and making him roll his eyes. He then pointed to Mr. Whiskerson, sending him a severe look. “You, stay there.”

Bard led the way to the desk where Thranduil had seen him for the first time; he made him fill out some basic forms, explaining that he liked to keep track of where his animals ended up, before he made Thranduil a list of everything needed to take care of Mr. Whiskerson.

Bard helped him choose bowls and a cat bed in the shop, and it quickly became apparent they wouldn't be able to bring the cat's things and the cat himself home today, unless they took a cab, which Thranduil didn't want to do so close to home.

Though he wouldn't admit it, Thranduil mainly didn't mind because it meant he would see Bard again soon.

“I'll come and get him tomorrow,” Thranduil said, eyeing the full box of cat food, little toys and bowls on the desk, suddenly realizing what he was getting himself into.

“I can drop him off myself, if you'd like,” Bard offered, holding up a hand when Thranduil frowned and opened his mouth to protest. “I don't mind at all.”

“Alright—” Thranduil said carefully, searching Bard's eyes to make sure this was true. “Tomorrow, maybe.”

Bard nodded as he put the completed forms in one of the desk's drawers.

“I have to pick up the girls at school anyway,” he said with a shrug. “Tomorrow is half-day for them, so I'll have some time to bring you Mr. Whiskerson.”

Thranduil hesitated for another second before he gave in and made a wave of his hand.

“Fine,” he said, his tone slightly miffed; he appreciated Bard's kindness, but didn't like not knowing how to react to it appropriately. It was disconcerting, and Thranduil was a man who liked to have great self-control, even though he was still human and had had outbursts of emotions in the past. He knew very well this could happen again, and felt Bard was the kind of person who was able to provoke them. He was new and a mystery to Thranduil. He felt Bard could bring out the best as much as the worst in him. 

“But you'll have to stay for tea,” Thranduil added, feeling it was the least he could offer to show his gratitude.

“We have a deal, then,” Bard smiled, extending his hand to shake.

The touch of Bard's palm against his own made a shiver run down his spine. It was warm and soft; his grip was one of a man who knew how to be firm and gentle at the same time. They lingered a tad too long, until Thranduil broke the contact and suddenly didn't know what do with his hand; he stuffed it in his pants' pocket, while Bard gestured to the hall's door leading to the animals.

They didn't need to go through, however, for the door opened on Legolas, beaming and smiling brightly. He ran to hug his father's legs just as Bain appeared behind him.

“They're awesome!” he exclaimed as Thranduil bent down to take a ball of fur from Legolas' hair. He wrinkled his nose; his son now smelled of dog, and it wasn't a scent he enjoyed much. “Can we come back soon?”

Bard was smirking at him, which made Thranduil shoot him a glance.

“We always need people to play with them,” Bain pointed out, and Thranduil was relatively sure he knew exactly what he was doing, if his little smile was anything to go by. Thranduil wanted to show some kind of exasperation, but truth was he didn't really mind; as long as it made his son happy, he was absolutely ready to let him spend more time here.

After all, it wasn't as if both father and son were unworthy of his trust, and Bard was pleasant to talk to. If Legolas wished to come to the shelter once or twice a week, Thranduil was ready to say yes. It would allow him to do other things without having to keep an eye on his boy, or to have small talk with Bard from time to time.

“Did you pass the test?” Legolas asked then, peering up at his father with hope shining in his eyes, though his father remembered he already knew the answer; after all, Mr. Whiskerson had _told him_.

Thranduil pretended to think about it for a few seconds, before he gave Bard an interrogative look. Legolas followed it and let go of his legs to go hug Bard's instead. Bard stiffened, and Thranduil managed to stay expressionless while Bain didn't seem to know if he should smirk and wince, but soon enough Bard softened, and he patted Legolas’ head.

“Aye, he did,” he said gently.

“Does that mean Mr. Whiskerson can come home with us?”

“Bard will bring him over tomorrow,” Thranduil confirmed, and the smile Legolas offered him was one of the brightest he had ever seen lighting up his son's face. It warmed his heart. It was beautiful how his child, still full of innocence, could make Thranduil forget all the past and present horrors of the world just by looking so happy at the prospect of adopting a new friend.

“Thank you, thank you!” Legolas repeated as he approached his father again and extended his arms to him. Thranduil picked him up, unable to help his own smile. “Can I see him now?”

Behind him Bard was nodding, already heading back to the break room after he gestured to Bain and then to the scattered papers on the desk. The teenager sighed and rolled his eyes, but got to work anyway.

They stayed at the shelter for another hour, Legolas gladly playing with the newest member of their little family while Thranduil and Bard sat side by side on the couch, talking about their children until the subject of Christmas came back on the table. Thranduil mentioned he and Legolas would be spending it at Elrond's, for celebrating on their own had become something sad for the both of them. Even if Legolas couldn't miss something he had never known, Thranduil knew he still felt something was missing.

Bard told him he felt the same, but having three children made Christmas feel more like it should. They had never felt the need to share it with another family, though Bard joked he wouldn't mind spending such an evening with Thranduil, for he wondered what he would look like with a santa hat on his head and a few glasses of wine down his throat.

This made Thranduil laugh despite himself, which made Legolas turn from the cat and beam at him, before he went back to throwing a little ball for Mr. Whiskerson to play with.

“Would you mind if I bring the girls with me tomorrow?” Bard asked then. “They'd like to meet you.”

“You told them about me?”

Bard tilted his head slightly to the side; he seemed amused by Thranduil's confusion.

“Well, of course,” he merely replied, as if such a simple answer was enough and didn't need more explanation. “Tilda wants to check if you're worth Mr. Whiskerson.”

“Your youngest?” Thranduil inquired, and Bard nodded, his eyes particularly soft. “Let's hope I won't disappoint her then.”

Bard shook his head and chuckled. When he looked up to meet Thranduil's gaze, his smile was true and kind.

“I don't think you have anything to worry about.”

Soon enough Thranduil and Legolas got ready to leave the shelter and head back home with the promise that they would be back if time allowed them to before Christmas, so that Legolas could play with cats and dogs again.

“See you tomorrow,” Bard told him, leaning against the threshold.

“See you tomorrow,” Thranduil replied. He wasn't sure how to feel about how those simple words brought a smile to his lips.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> The next chapters will introduce Bard's POV! The 5th and the 6th at least, not sure about the 7th yet.  
> By the way, I know it isn't canon that Sigrid is younger than Bain. Like many writers, I made Sigrid the oldest in all my previous works, but I thought I'd give second child!Sigrid a try in this one. :)
> 
> A big thank you to [Max](http://archiveofourown.org/users/oliverdalstonbrowning/pseuds/oliverdalstonbrowning) for editing this chapter and for his many helpful suggestions! <3 
> 
> (I swear I didn't forget about the colours ;) Looks like Thran forgot about the scarf though. oops.)


	5. You Like Him

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> And here's Bard's POV!  
> This chapter ended up even longer than the third and the fourth, oops again.

Bard woke up shivering, and his night shirt was wet with sweat. His throat was dry, and he took a few deep breaths to calm the hammering of his heart. He looked around, finding the room dark and empty; then he reached for the lamp on his bedside table and turned it on, so he could look at the old clock hanging on the wall. It read 6:17.

He sighed as he ran a hand down his face, before sitting on the edge of the bed and rubbing his knee. He closed his eyes and waited for his heart to steady, his fingers unmoving unless he wanted them to. With the years, those dreams (or nightmares) had grown less frequent, but they still happened from time to time, and this little ritual had become an habit. 

It was 6:31 by the time his dreams were finally put away in the deep corner of his mind where he kept them locked down; when they were there, it was easier to forget about them. Bard took a shower, got dressed, and went into his daughters' bedroom. He gently kissed Sigrid's cheek, and she stretched lazily as she smiled at him. Then he moved around the girls’ shared bed, kissed Tilda's forehead, and wiped a lock of hair away from her face. Bard looked upon her with fondness when she made a tiny, tired noise and raised her hand to pat the side of his face.

“Hello, my angels,” Bard whispered as he gave both of them a grin. “Time to get ready for school.”

Tilda nodded excitedly while Sigrid let out a sigh and buried herself under the blankets. It made Bard roll his eyes affectionately, but he understood; what he wouldn't give to stay a little longer in the warmth of his bed.

“I'll go get breakfast, you get ready, wake Bain up, and ask him for help if you need some, alright?”

“Yes, da,” they said in unison, and Bard ruffled their hair before he left the room.

It wasn't rare for him to let them wake their brother up, for he knew if he did it himself Bain would insist Bard stayed home instead of going out. But Bard liked to walk a little in the morning, and his son shouldn't worry about such things.

He put his coat on, took his wallet, and went down the stairs.

Before he left the shelter, Bard checked on the animals; most of the dogs were asleep, and the cats were just as usual. All was good, and it was without worries that Bard walked to Bilbo's bakery. It was cold today, but no colder than the day before, and it was early still; surely the weather would warm up a bit. Bard would be the last person to complain, even if it was for just a day or two.

Snow still scattered the streets; he was careful not to slip until he reached the bakery and opened the door, glad to feel its warm air against his cheeks.

“Bard!” Bilbo exclaimed as he appeared behind the counter, apparently excited to see him.

“Good morning,” Bard greeted. “How's Thorin?”

“I'm fine, thank you,” Bilbo teased. “He's okay, just as grumpy as usual.” He paused, and gave Bard a knowing smile. “What about Thranduil?”

“Thranduil?” Bard frowned, unable to understand why Bilbo was bringing Thranduil up; what was that supposed to mean?

“Yes, Arathorn told me you spent an afternoon with him at the pub.”

Bard shrugged, as if it didn't mean anything. Which, to his eyes, really didn't.

“I don't know, he seemed fine yesterday,” he replied as his gaze inspected the few types of bread. “I'm bringing him his cat later today.”

Bilbo just stared at him, some sort of amusement glittering in his eyes.

“You like him,” he said, and it sounded more like a statement than anything else.

“I just met him, Bilbo,” Bard pointed out with a frown.

“So what? Doesn't mean you can't like him.”

Bard rolled his eyes. It seemed you could not befriend anyone new without Bilbo implying something else. It was true it had been a long time since the last time he had shown interest in someone he wasn't already friends with, and an even longer time since he had spent time outside his home or the shelter without his children, but he just happened to, yes, _like_ Thranduil. They’d gotten along well so far, and Bard enjoyed his company.

“Well then, yes, I like him.”

Bilbo hummed to himself, his eyes not leaving Bard's, as if he expected to see something in them.

“Just get me one of your whole wheat breads, Bilbo,” Bard sighed, his way of telling Bilbo not to say another word about Thranduil; for really, there was nothing to say.

“Alright, alright,” Bilbo chuckled, and made a wave of his hand. “Do you want me to slice it for you?”

“Aye, thank you,” Bard said absently, thinking about what Bilbo had told him.

He had talked with Thranduil thrice, and it was true it had always been for much more than a few minutes, but Bard just found his company pleasant and the man himself fascinating; he loved his son, paid attention to what he had to say, was incredibly interesting to listen to, and didn't ask unnecessary questions. Thranduil happened to be a single father as well, didn't pity or admire him for what he could guess Bard had been through, and he understood it all without making a fuss of it.

So yes, he liked Thranduil, and hoped he would get to know him more.

Bilbo got him out of his thoughts by handing him over his bread. Bard paid him, wished him a good day and went back home. He was proud of how he managed not to fall despite the snow being rather slippery after many people had walked upon it. Bard had always been a little clumsy since the war—at least, that was what he liked to call himself—and it wasn't rare for him to fall on his bum; so much so that when it happened, he didn't even feel embarrassed anymore.

And when he was with the kids, it always made Sigrid and Tilda laugh, which meant the world to him.

Back home, his children were all gathered at the kitchen's table. He took off his coat and gloves before he joined them, rolling his eyes at the disapproving look Bain sent him when he sat and put the fresh bread on the table. Bain shouldn't worry, he thought. It wasn't his place and there was no reason to; winter was sometimes harsh on him, but today was a good, normal day, and even if it hadn't been, he could absolutely manage the occasional pain such cold days brought, like he always did.

Pretty much always did, for there were very bad days, just like he had told Thranduil. Those were different, but he didn't want to think about them; he was just glad it had been a quite long while since the last one. Which was probably why Bain worried.

It warmed up his heart though, that his son cared so much about him, just as it made it ache a little. He wished Bain would worry about things teenagers usually worried about, and not his old, worn-out dad, who could deal perfectly fine by himself.

“Thank you, da!” Sigrid beamed as she took a slice of bread and smeared jam on it.

Tilda mimicked her sister, a concentration line on her forehead.

“You ready for school?” Bard asked gently as he poured himself a cup of coffee.

The girls nodded and Bard smiled.

“I'll accompany them,” Bain said, and Bard didn't find any reason to refuse, if Bain wanted to do him this service. He would pick them up later anyway.

“Thanks, son.”

They finished eating their breakfast, sharing casual conversation until it was time for his daughters to go to school. He cleaned up quickly, made sure they had everything they needed, and then went downstairs and accompanied them to the door. He blew a raspberry to their cheeks, making them giggle before they walked away, holding Bain's hands.

Bard waved one last time as Tilda turned to send him a grin before he went inside and closed the door. He fed the cats and dogs, then spent some time with them. 

First, the cats; just like Legolas had almost two weeks earlier, he sat in the middle of the room and waited for those wanting affection to come to him. After all, if a cat stayed behind, it meant it didn't want to be petted, and Bard knew better than to try if that was the case. After about twenty minutes, he went to check on the dogs and spent some time with them as well. He liked to enter each cage to stroke their fur and, unfortunately, be licked all over the face by some of his more enthusiastic friends.

Finally, he went into the break room, where Mr. Whiskerson was.

“Hey little fella,” Bard greeted the cat who was already rubbing at his legs. “Good to finally get out of here, right?”

Bard got a meow as answer as he put some Spratt's cat food in a bowl. He petted Mr. Whiskerson until he heard the shelter's bell announcing Bain’s return; Bard left the room, and from there the day properly started.

Half a day passed in a blur, for it seemed only an hour had passed when it was time for Bard to go get his girls. Wednesday afternoons were his favourite part of the week; Sigrid and Tilda usually spent the rest of the day playing with the animals and bringing laughter in the shelter, something Bard could never get tired of. On the contrary, it brought him a most welcomed joy and a smile which didn't seem to want to leave, at least until night came and with it the loneliness he couldn't quite get used to.

But today would be even better, for he would then visit Thranduil's with the girls, and it promised to be a good time. Knowing Tilda, Thranduil would get a rather intensive interrogation, something Bard was looking forward to witness; last time it had happened (when Thorin had adopted a cat for Bilbo), it had all been very amusing and Bard was certain the same experience with Thranduil promised many memorable exchanges.

Bard was glad he didn't have to use his crutch most of the time; it always seemed to make people remember the wars they had been through, and he hated the looks many gave him. He didn't want pity, nor did he deserve admiration. There was nothing to be proud of. Which was why, as soon as Bain had been old enough, he had always been charged to go get his sisters at school when Bard felt like he needed to use the cane.

The rest of the afternoon went just as fast as the morning, with its many good things; they managed to get a dog adopted, which left Bard's family on a particularly good mood, with Tilda dancing with Mr. Whiskerson as a partner. Bard laughed heartily and Bain tried to hide his grin. As for Sigrid, it didn't take long before she joined in the dance as well, and Bard wished his daughters could be here every day. But he knew better; they had to go to school and choose their own way. Though, it was still a little early for that.

“Alright girls, everyone in the car!” Bard said once it was time to go as he wrapped Mr. Whiskerson in a small blanket.

They could have gone by foot, but Tilda was only six and grew tired quickly. He couldn't carry her on their way back later in the evening, so taking the car was the better option, even if the walk to Thranduil's house wouldn't last longer than ten or fifteen minutes.

Bard thanked Bain for taking care of closing the shelter before he followed his girls outside to their small car. It had been a wedding gift from his wife's parents, not long before the war.

He gave Mr. Whiskerson to Sigrid as he opened the doors before he took place as well. It wasn't until he started the car that he realized Thranduil hadn't given him his address; hopefully he knew where the house in the woods was (though, most people did, for it had become famous for not finding new owners). Thranduil probably hadn’t realized the lack of address yet, for Bard was ready to bet Thranduil would have come get the cat himself if he had. If he did realize before they arrived, Thranduil might even be surprised to see them. 

Mr. Whiskerson was nervous during the whole short drive, but Sigrid and Tilda gently stroking his fur and talking to him kept the cat calm enough to not run and hide under one of the seats. Bard parked close to the house, which he couldn't help but be in awe of; he had often thought about how amazing it would be if he had had enough money to buy it. His children could have had their own rooms and lots of space to play. But Bard had never raised his hopes too high; he knew he didn’t have the means, and he was glad Thranduil and Legolas lived there, anyway.

Bard got out of the car and opened the girls' door as Tilda took Mr. Whiskerson from Sigrid's arms (it was her turn, she said). As soon as they looked upon the house covered in snow, warm lights coming from the windows, they both let out a small squeal.

“It's so pretty!” Tilda exclaimed.

“Are we really going in there?” Sigrid asked excitedly, giving her father a big smile.

Bard laughed as he patted her shoulder.

“We are,” he said, petting Mr. Whiskerson's head. Then Bard took Sigrid's hand and lead the way to the door.

Bard didn't even have time to raise his hand to knock when the door opened to Thranduil, dressed in neat but simple pants with an impeccable shirt, as he always did, though he wasn’t wearing a jacket in the warmth of his own home. His long hair was falling down his shoulders in a beautiful cascade, and he looked happy to see them. Bard held his breath for a second, feeling his heart beat slightly faster upon seeing Thranduil again; he had been looking forward to it, but he hadn't prepared himself for the pleasant feeling that settled in his chest.

It was no surprise when Sigrid gasped and exchanged a look with her sister, whose eyes were sparkling at the sight Thranduil made. Bard managed not to smirk, for he guessed what this look meant.

“Good even—”

“You're so pretty!” Tilda cut Thranduil off, beaming and hopping on her feet despite she was still holding Mr. Whiskerson.

“Da, why didn't you say he was pretty?” Sigrid asked, sounding just as enthusiastic as her sister, though a tad less expressive.

Bard laughed awkwardly and sent Thranduil a careful look, but he just looked like he was melting inside and absolutely didn't mind the young girls' boldness.

“Well, thank you m’ladies,” Thranduil said, making the girls beam a little more. “You must be Sigrid, and you Tilda?”

They nodded enthusiastically under Bard's fond gaze, who then mouthed to Thranduil a silent greeting, which was returned, along with a small smile.

“Pleasure to meet you, I'm Thranduil,” he introduced himself. “Why don't you come in and get warm?”

He stepped aside and gestured to the inside of the house; the girls entered first, followed by Bard, who felt relieved to feel how warm it was. Thranduil led them in a living room where a fire had been built in a fireplace. He closed the door behind them and Bard took in the beautiful place that was Thranduil's home. There was a large couch, two particularly comfortable-looking armchairs, a dinner table with four chairs, and a few more decorative elements of great taste. There were also a few paintings on the walls, but no pictures.

“Can I let Mr. Whiskerson go now?” Tilda asked before she kissed the cat's forehead.

“Of course,” Thranduil replied, sending a slightly amused look to the cat all wrapped in the blanket and looking much comfortable in there. “May I take your coats, then?”

As soon as Mr. Whiskerson was freed of the blanket (and ran to hide under the low table near the fire), Bard took off his coat and gloves, as well as his daughters' and handed them to Thranduil with a polite smile.

Thranduil went back in the hall and was back a few seconds later, only to be met with a severe looking Tilda standing in front of the couch, arms crossed against her chest.

Knowing what would happen, Bard took the liberty to sit in one of the armchairs and Sigrid went to sit on his left leg, already chuckling.

“You may be pretty,” Tilda started, hands now resting on her hips, “but you won't fool me.”

Bard barely retained a snort, and bit the inside of his cheek in order not to laugh at how adult his daughter was trying to look. Thranduil's eyes went from confusion to understanding as they met Bard's and he appeared to remember what Bard had told him the day before. From then on, there was the tug of a smile at the corner of Thranduil's mouth.

“Why do you think you're worth Mr. Whiskerson?” Tilda continued just as seriously.

“I'm certainly not worth him,” Thranduil replied honestly, and his answer seemed to please her for she sent him a quick smile before she went back to her severe expression.

“Why do you want to adopt Mr. Whiskerson?” Tilda asked, her gaze not leaving Thranduil's.

“Because he would make my son happy, and my son would make him happy as well,” he replied without a second thought, as if he had prepared his answer, but Bard knew it was simply the truth.

“Hmm—” Tilda took a few steps forward, then looked up to him with an even more serious expression. On Bard's leg Sigrid couldn't help her chuckle, and Bard himself found difficult to keep his own in. “And where is he?”

“He's taking a nap,” Thranduil said, but Tilda was talking again before he could add anything. He ended up sitting, answering to every question the little girl had to ask, from if he promised he would take care of his new friend to what kind of food Thranduil would give him.

Thranduil answered all of them for the next fifteen minutes, apparently unbothered by the questions that were flowing his way; on the contrary, he seemed to take them rather seriously. Bard knew he was playing along Tilda's game, and he couldn't help but roll his eyes fondly at the pair they made.

All the while Bard softly massaged Sigrid's back, exchanging quick amused looks with Thranduil, until Mr. Whiskerson finally came out of his hiding place to inspect Thranduil's shoes once more.

“Fine,” Tilda said after a couple more questions, now sitting on the floor to pet her cat friend. “You can keep him.”

“Thank you, Miss Tilda, I'm flattered you deem me worthy of Mr. Whiskerson,” Thranduil said kindly before he smiled to her and got up. “I'd better get Legolas up, I'll be right back.”

At that, Sigrid jumped from Bard's leg, enthusiastic at the prospect of meeting someone new. As for Tilda, she seemed rather proud to be treated so seriously by someone as pretty as Thranduil; she couldn't stop babbling about it until Thranduil came back into the room. He was followed by Legolas, who was hiding behind him. Until he saw Mr. Whiskerson in Sigrid's arms, that is; then he hurried towards them.

“Are you friends with Mr. Whiskerson too?” he asked excitedly, reaching out the pet the cat's head and beaming at the girls.

As the children were introducing themselves, Bard caught Thranduil gesturing to another door; he stood and joined him, offering Thranduil an apologetic smile.

“Sorry about that.”

“It's alright,” Thranduil chuckled. “She's very—passionate.”

Bard smiled in return as he looked upon the three children and Mr. Whiskerson, playing with a string to which a little ball was attached. The cat was desperately trying to catch it, making the little ones laugh. Such a sight filled Bard's heart with joy, and if the way Thranduil's eyes shone, he wasn't the only one.

“Thank you for bringing the cat,” Thranduil said. “But we agreed on tea.”

“Indeed we did.” Bard nodded and waved off Thranduil's thanks, following him into the kitchen.

As Bard watched Thranduil make tea, he couldn't but wonder if he had seen the same thing as he had. But Bard didn't recall Thranduil reacting in a weird way to something that wasn't there; surely the hint of light blue Bard had seen in his eyes the day before had been the figment of his imagination. After all, wasn't it close to grey? Or was it? Bard didn't know. It was probably better to stop thinking about it; he had been tired that day, after all.

“—ard ? Are you alright?”

Bard snapped back to reality, realizing Thranduil was standing in front of him and handing a cup of tea, a slightly worried expression on his face.

“Uh, yes, apologies,” Bard said, rubbing at the skin of his neck before he took the cup that was offered to him. “I drifted off a little.”

Thranduil stared at him a little longer until he leaned against the counter and invited Bard to do the same.

Bard could feel the weight of his gaze on him, as if Thranduil was trying to decide if he should insist or not; but he didn't, and just sipped his tea.

“I forgot to tell you where I live,” Thranduil said then, looking somehow a little sheepish.

“Well, yes, but we're here aren't we?” Bard chuckled, though slightly taken aback by the sudden statement, and managed to get another smile out of Thranduil.

“Yes, I just—” Thranduil seemed to think a little longer before he continued. “I just don't know how I could forget to mention it.”

Bard merely shrugged. He drank a bit of his tea before he answered, glad to let the hot drink warm him up.

“Does it matter?” he asked at last, and Thranduil just shook his head, though Bard felt there had to be something else on his mind. But he didn't ask; it wasn't as if he would have had time anyway, for Legolas, Sigrid, and Tilda entered the room, apparently enthusiastic about something.

“Ada, can we have hot chocolate?” Legolas asked, and Bard couldn't help but smile at Thranduil's raise of his eyebrow. “Please?”

For the few minutes that followed, Bard made conversation with the little ones, occupying them until the hot chocolates were ready. He asked Legolas where they had put the cat beds and he was proudly told it would stay in Legolas' room, while another one would be in Thranduil's room. Bard smiled to himself, for he knew very well it wouldn't change anything; Mr. Whiskerson would snuggle against them and cover their sheets in fur, whether Thranduil liked it or not.

“Can we go play on the swings?”

Thranduil shook his head.

“It's getting darker and colder out,” he said, and the children's disappointment was clear on their faces. “But another day, I don't see any other reason why not.”

He paused to send Bard an interrogative look.

“If Bard doesn't mind coming back, that is.”

Instantly the children turned to him, offering their best puppy faces. Bard rolled his eyes, but he was smiling.

“Aye, why not,” Bard said, and the kids' enthusiasm was shared; he was glad as well, to have another reason to come back and see Thranduil. Though he really didn't know how to feel about such a thought, he settled on a simple reason: he liked Thranduil, and that was it. There was nothing wrong about that, was there?

The children went back to the living room with their hot chocolate while Bard and Thranduil finished their tea, and they shared a comfortable silence until Thranduil straightened. Bard could see his hesitation.

“What are you doing for New Year's Eve?” Thranduil asked, looking somehow unsure of himself, which Bard found surprising.

Bard frowned, but he guessed what this meant; it made a small smile form on his lips.

“The usual; good food at home and songs,” Bard said, tilting his head slightly to the side. “Why?”

Thranduil glared at him, and Bard couldn't help but ignore it; he knew very well why Thranduil had asked him that, he just wanted to hear him say it.

“Would you like to spend it with us?” Thranduil offered nonchalantly, taking Bard's cup from his hand and putting it aside along with his own.

“Sure,” Bard answered, without so much as a second thought. The girls were getting along well with Legolas, even Bain liked him already, and imagining Thranduil and Legolas spending that evening alone in this big house made quite a sad picture that Bard didn't much like.

Bard was certain they would have a good time. Had Thranduil not already been invited to Elrond's for Christmas, Bard would have extended an invitation for then as well.

Thranduil offered him a grateful look, the ghost of a smile lightly lighting up his face.

“Songs?” he inquired then, eyes politely curious.

“Aye.” Bard chuckled as he ran a hand through his hair. “I've been told I'm not that bad.”

“I'm looking forward to hear if that's true,” Thranduil hummed, inspecting his fingers.

“Are you doubting my word?” Bard teased back, and Thranduil only raised a skeptical eyebrow. “Fine, I'll prove it.”

Thranduil smirked, and from that the conversation went smoothly; they talked about which songs Bard would sing and what he would bring that day, before they realized it was maybe too soon to take decisions, for they still had three weeks to go until New Year's Eve. Plenty of time to decide on the details of an evening Bard hoped would be memorable.

He wanted this first New Year's Eve in this new town to be a good one for Thranduil and Legolas. Bard supposed—given the conversation about celebrating Christmas as single fathers they’d had the day before at the shelter—that Legolas hadn't had many New Year's Eves shared with anyone other than his father, either, and the thought made Bard a little sad. 

Instead they talked of their plans for Christmas, until they agreed Thranduil would come to the shelter twice a week so that Legolas could spend some time with the animals; on Wednesdays and Saturdays, for the girls would be there as well and it would be much more fun for them. As well as for Thranduil and himself, if Bard had to be honest. 

“Do you want to sit?” Thranduil asked him after a while. The children's laughter had grown quieter in the other room; they were getting tired, and maybe Thranduil thought it was the same for Bard.

“No, I'm fine.” Bard shrugged, then gave Thranduil a reassuring smile. “I am most of the time, you know. You don't have to worry, Bain probably does enough for the both of you.”

Thranduil inspected him for a few seconds, as if he was trying to figure out if Bard was telling the truth. It made Bard roll his eyes and feel slightly exasperated. 

“Alright,” he finally said, and somehow Bard knew Thranduil wouldn't bring up the subject again.

They just looked at each other for a moment, searching eyes and silence settling between them. It wasn't awkward, but it allowed Bard to notice how they were flaws in Thranduil's apparent complete self control; his thumb played with the borders of his pockets, and his hand sometimes found his hair to let his fingers run through it.

Bard wasn't any better; he knew himself to straighten his waistcoat when he had something on his mind, as well as to bite the inside of his cheek. He wondered what was on Thranduil's, if he had also had that feeling of déjà-vu. Bard tried not to think about it, but when they shared such silences and couldn't do anything but stare at each other, he couldn't help but hear that voice telling him—

“Have we met before?” Bard suddenly asked. After all, there was no reason to keep wondering when he could just talk about it.

Thranduil's reaction was interesting to witness; he seemed confused at first, then reassured.

“I—I don't think so,” he answered, but his slight hesitation (which was definitely not an usual thing coming from Thranduil, Bard could tell) told Bard there were high chances he felt the same. Thranduil couldn't put his finger on where and when they could have met, just like him.

Bard just nodded; he assumed that if both of them didn't know, it had to be something else, and probably wasn't of much importance. You tended to remember important things, didn't you?

“I think they've fallen asleep,” Thranduil said then, drastically changing the topic and heading to the living room.

Bard followed and indeed, the three children were asleep on the couch, with Mr. Whiskerson drowsing between them. He searched for a clock; there was one above the fireplace, already reading 7:26. They had been here for a little more than two hours, and hadn't noticed. They'd better work on that, Bard thought, if they didn't want to get into trouble the next time they would go have lunch together.

Wait, what?

“I'd better go,” Bard whispered. “They have school tomorrow.”

Thranduil just nodded; he went for to the hallway and came back with their coats. He put Sigrid's on while Bard took care of Tilda, both girls sleepily trying to lay back on the couch.

“Come on girls,” Bard said gently. “It's time to go home.”

He mouthed a silent thank you as Thranduil took Tilda in his arms, while Bard took Sigrid's hand and guided them all to the car. Once the girls were safe in the back, already drowsing back into sleep, Bard turned to Thranduil and shook his hand. They exchanged kind looks as they did so, and Bard found it difficult to to keep his eyes away from Thranduil’s. 

“Say goodnight to Legolas for us,” Bard said as he got inside the car and started it. “And good luck with Mr. Whiskerson. I fear those cat beds won't be very useful.”

“I will,” Thranduil answered. “And thank y—wait, what do you mean?”

“See you soon Thranduil,” he said. “Thanks for everything.”

And to that he closed the door and drove away with a last wave to Thranduil, left confused on the side of the path.

Bard laughed quietly to himself, knowing Thranduil would know soon enough what he had meant. He knew as well waking up to a cat curled up against your side had something comforting about it, and Bard was sure Thranduil wouldn't mind that much in the end. He had a little something of a cat himself, if Bard dared to think so.

At home they were welcomed by Bain, who had prepared dinner for their return; Sigrid and Tilda said they were too tired to eat, but Bard wouldn't let them go to bed with empty stomachs. They ate mostly in silence on the girls’ part, while Bain reassured Bard everything had gone well for the time they were gone.

Once they had eaten, Tilda and Sigrid dragged their feet to their room, but seemed glad to find the warmth of their bed. Bard went to kiss their foreheads and whispered quiet words of goodnight to them, before he went back to the living room where Bain was waiting for him.

“There's no one to smile to, but you're smiling,” Bain pointed out with a raised eyebrow.

“You're there, aren't you?”

Bain rolled his eyes as he accompanied Bard to the threshold of the bathroom.

“It was a good day, that is all,” Bard said firmly, putting his hand on the handle. “Goodnight, son.”

Another smile and Bard closed the door.

Bard cleaned himself up, brushed his teeth and changed to a night shirt. He turned off the lights as he got into his bedroom, where he got ready for bed in the dark. Bard let out a sigh as he sat on the mattress, but it wasn't one of annoyance or exhaustion; he wasn't exactly sure what it was. Maybe a mix of many things that he couldn't quite put words on.

He lay on the bed and buried himself under the covers, staring at the ceiling. It was dark and cold and lonely, but Bard couldn't shake off his smile, nor the good feeling building in his chest.

Bard liked Thranduil, he really did, and looked forward to see him again at the shelter as much as celebrating New Year’s Eve with him and Legolas.

And today had been a good day. A very good day indeed.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Please make my day and leave a comment if you liked this chapter? :D
> 
> I promise some ""interesting"" things in next chapter, but you'll have to wait and see *wink wink*
> 
> A huge thank you to [Iza](http://archiveofourown.org/users/Piyo13/) for editing this thing (and who's now this story's beta)! :D


	6. New Year's Eve

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> *throws new mostly fluffy chapter at you all*  
> I got up early just to finish the editing and post it because I'm way too excited.

The two weeks leading to Christmas passed in a blur; every day seemed to end faster than the last, with Legolas and Thranduil visiting the shelter twice a week. But, if Bard had to be quite honest, that had only been the first week. Bard couldn't quite understand why he was looking forward to seeing Thranduil so much, but each of their meetings only increased his need and made days without Thranduil around feel quite longer than they really were.

On the second week, however, things were different; the winter holidays had started and Sigrid and Tilda spent most of their time at the shelter. Of course, when Legolas had found out, he had managed to get Thranduil to come every day (except for the days he just dropped Legolas off, and went to help Elrond). At least, that was what Thranduil told him, but Bard knew Legolas hadn't had much convincing to do.

And so the days had been the same, but no less entertaining. While the children played under Bain's watch, Bard would work while he talked with Thranduil and got to know him more.

On the weekend, Thranduil would invite Bard's family over so the kids could play on the swings and check how well Mr. Whiskerson was doing in his new home. He had already made the armchair closest to the fire his, and spent most of the evenings drowsing there. As expected, the cat beds had been useless during the nights, though Mr. Whiskerson seemed to like sleeping there during the day.

It had made Bard laugh, when Thranduil had reluctantly admitted he was almost envious when Mr. Whiskerson chose to sleep by Legolas' side instead of his. Bard had patted his shoulder and teased they could still adopt another cat to increase his chances, making Thranduil roll his eyes but smile. It hadn't been one of his usual small or half smiles, either, tainted with the uncertainty of addressing it to someone he didn’t know well yet; it had been a kind one, full and genuine, the kind Bard was starting to see more and more as days passed.

But then Christmas' Eve came, and Bard hadn't really expected to see Thranduil that day.

Yet when Bard entered the reception after hearing the bell, here Thranduil was, standing in the shelter's shop and inspecting the few cat toys and accessories.

“Legolas insisted Whisk' should have gifts as well,” Thranduil said as greeting as he saw Bard, picking up a nice collar Bard knew to be quite comfortable for cats' necks.

“That nickname is ridiculous,” Bard pointed out with a grin.

“Try to explain that to Lego—”

“Bard!”

Legolas appeared behind a shelve of cat food and rushed towards him, smiling brightly as he crashed into his legs; it didn't make Bard stiffen anymore, as it had become Legolas' way of saying hello over the past two weeks.

“Hello, Leggy,” Bard greeted, and tried not to laugh at how Thranduil glared at him. “I mean, Legolas.”

Thranduil rolled his eyes and went to the desk, as Bard patted Legolas' head and ruffled his hair.

“Hey, why don't you go get Tilda?” Bard offered him. “She's playing with the cats.”

Legolas nodded vigorously before he ran to the hallway leading to the animals.

“Sigrid's having a nap,” Bard explained before Thranduil could ask where she was. “Playing mistletoe is tiring, I'm sure you understand.”

Bard then leant against the desk and crossed his arms against his chest.

“Playing mistletoe?” Thranduil inquired, raising an eyebrow.

“You know, with cats. Trying to get them to kiss.” Bard chuckled at Thranduil's confused expression. “Aye, doesn't really work.”

Thranduil nodded, something fond in his eyes. Then, he gave a small smile. Bard returned it before he pretended to count how much Thranduil's purchases would cost him.

“That'll be lunch, please,” Bard finally said as if it was a perfectly usual form of payment.

“Are you really getting me to invite you to lunch?” Thranduil asked, somewhat confused.

“Aye, why not?” Bard shrugged. “It's your turn, after all.”

“My turn, mmh?” Thranduil smirked. “Should I remind you I paid for my own food last time?”

“Really? Oh.” Bard frowned, but remembered that indeed, none of them had offered to pay for the other. “Lunch at your house then, I'll bring something. The girls are dying to play on the swings again.”

Bard knew Thranduil was teasing him by pretending to think about it as he rubbed at his chin.

“Fine,” he finally said, waving his hand dismissively. “I'm still paying you for this though. How much?”

“Five pounds,” Bard sighed, resisting the urge to roll his eyes; it seemed it would be difficult to get Thranduil to accept gifts of any kind without a good reason.

Thranduil handed him the money and as Bard put it in the cash drawer, Legolas and Tilda burst back into the room; she immediately went for the desk, climbing onto it. Bard sent her a disapproving glance, but she didn't pay attention to it, apparently too focused on her new found purpose.

“Tilda, you know what I said about clim—”

“Give it to me, Legolas!” she said without even looking at her father, extending her hand to Legolas.

He gave her—oh.

“MISTLETOE!” Tilda beamed as she held the small branch between Thranduil and Bard, being too small to hold it over their heads. “Now you have to kiss!”

They stared at each other for a moment, until Thranduil laughed awkwardly and ran his fingers through his hair. But before he could protest, Bard's hand was on his neck and he was leaning forward and kissing Thranduil's cheek in the softest of ways.

When he stepped back, Thranduil's eyes were slightly widened, and Bard would have sworn he was blushing, maybe even looking embarrassed; the light smile that had been on Bard's lips disappeared and he was going to apologize, say he had not idea what had come over him (it was the truth) other than he hadn't wanted to disappoint Tilda, but it seemed his smile had travelled to Thranduil and was now shyly brightening up his face.

It only made Bard grow a new one.

They said nothing, and Bard was only barely aware of Tilda and Legolas' giggling as he met Thranduil's eyes and Bard felt his heart flutter, and warmth settle in his stomach; he felt strangely and exponentially happy, just seeing Thranduil smi—

Oh, right. 

“We'd better go,” Thranduil said, taking Legolas' hand and giving him the light purchases to hold.

Bard looked down, slowly nodded; despite Thranduil's smile a small part of him feared he had made a mistake, feared it was just a mask even though his heart knew it wasn't faked. Bard couldn't help it; his boldness could cost him much if he had crossed a line.

But then there was a hand on his shoulder and a shiver was running down his spine, for he knew Thranduil was not that much of a touchy person.

“Oh, and Bard?” He looked up to meet Thranduil's eyes. “See you soon.”

That made him grin, and Thranduil gave a smirk back. Instantly his worry lessened and he understood no harm had been done, for Thranduil still wished to see him.

“See you, Thranduil,” he said. “Bye, Legolas.”

Tilda and himself waved at Legolas as they disappeared through the door.

“Tilda, love?” She peered up at him, a silent question on her face. “Can you go check on your sister? Da's got some paperwork to do.”

“Okay, da,” was her answer, before she ran to the break room.

Bard fell in the chair behind his desk, took a deep breath and let his mind process what he was coming to realize.

He was falling for Thranduil, and he was falling fast.

Bard remembered about that day, when he was just a boy, when he had told his parents he loved one of his friends. His father had shaken him, told him there was no such things as boys liking boys, or else you were sick and Bard wasn't sick, was he?

Bard had thought himself to be, even after he had met his wife. Until later, when he had crossed Thorin and Bilbo's path and understood there was nothing wrong with him; that his feelings all those years ago had been valid and that his family had been wrong. Slowly he had accepted the fact his attraction wasn’t restricted to women, even though he hadn’t felt anything for anyone since his wife’s death, until Thranduil.

Bard held his head between his hands, took another deep breath; this wasn't supposed to happen, and he had no idea what to think about how he felt about it. Despite his worries, he couldn't help feeling anything other than happy. He was confused and slightly afraid, but mostly excited.

His wife had been his soulmate. Never had he thought he would find someone else, much less accept it. It wasn’t that rare for someone who had found a soul match in a lover to fall for someone new afterwards, so yes, it happened. Bard just hadn't dared to imagine it would happen to him.

But here Bard was, searching out Thranduil's company and attention, embracing those feelings he could only now put words to, being conscious that his wife would wish him to be happy more than anything else.

And of course, he wondered; did Thranduil even feel the same? He hadn't been disgusted by Thorin and Bilbo's love and had kept his mouth shut; but did it mean anything once he was part of the equation? Bard tried to keep in mind most men wouldn't have appreciated being kissed on the cheek by their friend. And certainly wouldn't have smiled the way Thranduil had.

Bard sighed and ran a hand through his hair. That he now understood how he felt didn't change anything; he would act the same and let things happen if they had to. He hadn't buried himself in worried thoughts until now, and it wasn't time to start; so he got back to work and tried his best to ignore the warmth in his stomach that he could now recognize for what it was.

  


Christmas the next day went as well as Bard could have hoped for; his children were happy with their gifts and despite how the cold made his old injury pain him, the slightly nervous Thranduil he found on his doorstep later in the morning—along with a wooden box in sober gift wrap protecting a beautiful pocket watch—made him happier than he already was.

Bard had made Thranduil a surprise, earlier in the night; he had left his sleeping girls under Bain's watch while he went to Thranduil's house and left something for him by the door. He didn't ask, but he hoped his father's old bottle of wine would please Thranduil as much as he loved the watch he had been offered.

A few days later found them sipping tea in the warmth of Thranduil's kitchen as the children played and Mr. Whiskerson rubbed at their legs. As was usual, Legolas and Thranduil visited the shelter almost every day until New Year's Eve came.

As he checked his hair in the mirror that evening, Bard couldn't help but feel rather enthusiastic about the hours they would spend at Thranduil's house.

“Bain, have you seen my tie?”

Bard got his nicest clothes out of his closet as he called for his son; he didn't have to be more specific, for he only had two ties and Bain was borrowing the other. Bard tried on a shirt and the waistcoat he had worn on the first date with his wife; it was the best he had, apart from the one from his wedding, which he didn't feel like wearing today.

Bain entered the room holding the tie Bard had been looking for.

“Thanks, son,” Bard said as he took it and put it on. “What do you think?”

“Very classy,” Bain replied, then grinned. “Don't forget your pants though.”

Bard laughed, shook his head.

“Of course.”

Bain watched him as he sat on the bed to put pants on, something curious in his gaze. It made Bard tilt his head slightly to the side.

“What is it?” Bard asked.

“Nothing.” Bain shrugged. “I'm just glad to see you happy.”

“What makes you say so?” Bard couldn't help but wonder.

“You smile a lot. More than before,” Bain clarified briefly, as if it was enough of an explanation. “I'll go check if Sigrid and Tilda are ready.”

And before Bard could ask anything more, Bain was out of the room, leaving him alone to finish getting ready. His son seemed to know what was happening, and didn't mind. It was good to know; one thing he could cross off on the list of things he might have to worry about in the future.

Bard inspected himself in the mirror one last time before he took the pocket watch Thranduil had offered him, and announced it was time to go, if they didn't want to be late.

Bard reluctantly took his crutch with him, though he hoped he wouldn't have to use it tonight, but one could never be too careful. Bain carried the dessert they had prepared together to the car, and once everyone was seated, they drove off to Thranduil's house.

Before he allowed Tilda to knock on the door, Bard straightened himself under Bain's amused gaze, making sure his suit didn't have any cat or dog fur or any folds.

“Gods, da, it's fine, you're worse than when Fíli tried to invite Sigrid for an afternoon tea,” Bain complained. “And he's ten.”

“When Fíli what—”

But Tilda chose that moment to knock and, as if he had been waiting behind it, the door opened on a magnificent looking Thranduil; he looked dazzling in his suit and his hair looked softer than Bard could remember.

However, Bard instantly forgot what he had meant to say.

“Good evening,” Thranduil said as he stepped aside to let them in. “You're right on time.”

Thranduil shook everyone's hand and soon enough Bard could hear the girls' happy squeal as they were welcomed in the living room by Legolas with a rather loud 'welcome', which made Thranduil wince and Bard chuckle.

“He's very excited,” Thranduil said fondly.

“Sounds like it, yes,” Bard replied kindly as he walked into the warmth of Thranduil's home and took off his coat. He left his crutch by the door and thanked Bain with a nod when he appeared back in the hallway to hang his sisters' coats as well.

In the living room the fire had been set, and there was a song by Nat King Cole playing in the background. The few Christmas decorations Thranduil had installed were still on, and it all made Bard feel warm and cosy. It reminded him of times like those when he was younger; before the war, as well as when his wife was still a part of this world.

Legolas welcomed Bard with great enthusiasm, snapping him back to the present, and politely offered him to sit on Mr. Whiskerson's armchair, “which is a great honour”.

Just as Bard did so, the cat went to sit on his lap; it made the children giggle between themselves, and like this the evening started.

It all went smoothly; filled with small talk and laughs, songs and good food. Thranduil was sitting in the armchair facing Bard's and the children were all gathered on the couch. Bard was loving every second of it, and it seemed his grin wouldn't leave his face; it had been a long time since he had last felt this happy.

“Don't you have something to prove, Bard?” Thranduil asked then with a smirk.

“I'm sorry?” Bard said, under Bain and the children's curious gaze.

“Well, didn't you tell me you'd prove how good you are at singing?”

“Oh, yes.” Bard remembered now. “I just said I wasn't that bad though.”

“Oh please da, sing a song!” Sigrid exclaimed, soon followed by Tilda as well as Legolas. Bain only smiled, though Bard knew how much he loved his singing.

“Alright, alright, what do you want to hear?” Bard asked. “Some King Cole?”

Thranduil seemed pleased by the proposition; it didn't really surprise Bard, given the music that had been playing in the room when they had arrived.

“Sing a love song!” Tilda exclaimed and really, how could Bard deny anything to that face.

And so he sang _Unforgettable_ to her, making her beam. When he finished Bard bowed his head under the enthusiastic clapping he received from the children, and met Thranduil's eyes; there was a funny light about them that Bard couldn't quite put words on.

“Sing another,” Thranduil instructed, though his voice was gentle. “Please.”

“Which one?”

“ _Pretend._ ”

Bard nodded; he knew the song, like many. His voice filled the room once again, and this time it was Thranduil he looked at, though he had to avert his eyes as to not forget about what he was actually supposed to concentrate on.

“You should consider a singing career,” Thranduil said when he was finished. “You've got a beautiful voice.”

Bard smiled, truly touched by the genuine praise Thranduil was giving him. He appreciated the children's clapping too, but compliments coming from Thranduil seemed like something you got only if it was really deserved.

“Thank you,” Bard replied, with a small bow of his head.

Thranduil got up then, announcing dinner would soon be ready, and that he'd better check nothing was being overcooked. Bard didn't follow him; instead he kept an eye on the children and kept on stroking Mr. Whiskerson's fur. But after a moment Bard stood up anyway; he liked to stay close to the pleasant warmth of the fire, but he felt like the least he could do was offering Thranduil his help.

And so he went to the kitchen, and found Thranduil getting the red meat out of the oven. Bard winced; he had never liked the smell of it much, and he couldn't afford it at every meal anyway.

“Can I be of any help?” Bard asked, as Thranduil looked up to him.

“You can tell the children to sit down to eat,” Thranduil answered, and Bard shot him a glance, for that wasn't what he would call helping.

Bard made a wave of his hand, ignoring Thranduil's smirk, and went back to the living room.

“Kids, dinner's ready!” he called, and soon enough everyone was gathered at the table.

Dinner was just as delicious as it was entertaining; Tilda tried to prove she was as good a singer as her father, and Mr. Whiskerson kept getting on Thranduil's lap, and after his fifth try, Thranduil gave up and let him stay. Even though he looked slightly exasperated, anyone could see the fondness in his gaze.

The cake Bard and his children had baked was good as well; Legolas took two slices, despite not having been able to finish his plate of meat and potatoes, which made Thranduil shoot him a disapproving glance. Legolas didn’t seem to care, and only stuck out his tongue at him in a playful way. 

There were about thirty minutes left until midnight, and they were spent close to the fire. Sigrid, Tilda and Legolas were having some difficulty staying awake, for they kept yawning and their eyes closing, but they insisted they weren't tired. It made both Thranduil and Bard roll their eyes and exchange a knowing look.

Bard sat next to Thranduil on the couch, not too close and hands on his lap. He didn't dare look at him; the more time he had spent with him tonight, the more Bard had wondered if he should try to forget about the warmth in his belly and the feeling of being where he was supposed to. He didn't know if Thranduil shared his affection; what he knew was that making it known could ruin everything they had.

And what they had was good. It had been a long time since he and his family had had such a good evening, and way too long since they had last let someone enter their lives. His children were happy and Bard was too; surely this was enough.

“Thank you.”

Bard turned to Thranduil this time. He gave him an interrogative look.

“What for?”

“For being here,” Thranduil said quietly. “For making tonight a night my son will remember.”

Bard's features softened then, and his hand found Thranduil's arm. He gave it a light squeeze, and even though it lingered there a tad too long, Thranduil made no move to remove it. He said nothing, hoping his gesture was enough to express what he thought; he and his family would remember this night as well.

When midnight came the house burst into hugs and wishes of a good year. Bain put the music back on again, and the children danced. They giggled as they pretended to be little couples once a slow played in the room, then tried to get Bard to invite Thranduil to dance. He lied he was getting too tired, but truth was he didn't think himself capable of dancing anymore (he was particularly clumsy). He was also aware of Bain's amused gaze on him, and he didn't know if it would be crossing a line.

Bard thought about it though, wondering if he should give it a try, for there was nothing wrong about that, was there? It was unusual, but not wrong. It didn't mean anything. He wondered for a moment, until he saw Thranduil picking Sigrid up and have a calm dance with her; she smiled brightly, and such a sight made Bard's heart flutter a little.

But then Tilda danced with Legolas, Sigrid with Bain, and there was something of a disappointment in Thranduil's eyes.

As Thranduil took back his place next to him and went back to their small talk, the children calmed down as well and sat where they could; soon enough they fell asleep after such a long, active day, including Bain, who had barely sat all day. Mr. Whiskerson was drowsing on his lap, his purr loud enough to be heard over the music.

“Do you dance?” Bard finally dared to ask Thranduil; there was no one to watch them and send him knowing looks, and it was the New Year after all. Didn't one do those things on New Year's Eve? Given Thranduil's previous apparent disappointment, Bard hoped he hadn't gotten the message wrong. But as Thranduil nodded and took his hand, Bard didn't see anything on his face other than his usual calm, along with a hint of gladness.

The song playing in the background, _Too Young_ , was close to its end, but they didn't mind. Just like the children had, they danced; slowly, without a word. It was awkward, it really was. Bard was certain it showed on his face and he wondered if it had been a good idea. He wasn't a good dancer, he feared his leg would hit Thranduil's and hurt him, and he didn't know what to say. Surely they made quite an amusing picture.

However, he felt safe and warm as well, and Thranduil's body under his hands wasn't tensed. He was still happy for the great evening they had been sharing, and as they shared this moment too, hope blossomed in his heart like a waterlily opening itself up under the sun. He could feel Thranduil's breath against his ear, feel his heart beat steadily against his chest. Bard felt the warmth of his body against his, and progressively, his own relaxed.

Awkwardness left, replaced with a pleasant feeling of peacefulness.

They broke apart when the song ended, leaving the room quiet except for the purr of the cat and the peaceful breathing of the sleeping children, as well as their own.

Though, their hands lingered on hips and arms, and Bard looked down. He usually knew what to say, but no words came. Instead, it was Thranduil who spoke first.

“You're a terrible dancer,” he merely stated.

To that Bard couldn't help but chuckle, and when he looked up, he expected to see a smile lighting up Thranduil's face. There was, but not for long.

It faded as blue met hazel, and hazel met blue.

Instead of jerking away, Thranduil's grip on him tightened as a torrent of emotions painted his gaze. Mostly confusion, which Bard knew he was returning.

His breath had caught in his throat and he knew his fingers to be trembling, though he couldn't feel them anymore.

Bard hadn't dreamt that day at the shelter. The flash of colour he had seen hadn't been a trick of his imagination. It was real and it was right under his eyes and it wasn't disappearing. It stayed and he was lost to it; it had been so long, since he had last seen any colour. And this one, this one was beautiful.

Thranduil's eyes were of an icy blue, cold yet warm in their own way.

Bard didn't know for how long they stared, at a loss for words; for really, what was there to say?

People who found a second match were rare, for you had to be lucky (or unlucky), but such a thing was known to exist. Some talked about it as a second chance; but most talked about it as a replacement of the soul once lost or abandoned. Bard wasn't sure yet what he thought of that; he had often wondered if people’s words were of jealousy.

He didn't know how to feel either. The colour didn't mean Thranduil was falling for him as well; Bard wouldn't make any assumptions.

A soul match didn't mean anything. He had known about (best) friends who had someday known about their matching souls, and whose relationship had been ruined because of it. Sharing colours, the possibility of sharing such a bond with someone could be terrifying. It changed many things, and some people couldn't take it; so they left, and let the colours fade again before they could take too much space and see the bond that would make them soulmates completed.

It was all very tragic, when that happened to matching souls, and Bard hoped Thranduil wasn’t one of those people; if there was one thing he didn’t want to lose, it was their friendship. 

He was even ready to try burying his emotions deep down, to get over it, if it was what it would take to keep Thranduil close. Thranduil’s friendship was worth more than a little crush to Bard. If it was all they could share, Bard would gladly accept and take it.

As long as it was what Thranduil wanted. As long as the bond that would grow between them didn’t scare him off anyway. 

But Thranduil... Thranduil still said nothing. Maybe Bard didn't even have to share his feelings to ruin what they had been building together over the past month. Maybe his soul was enough to do so; it made him sick.

“I should wake them up and go home,” Bard said, looking away and getting out of Thranduil's grip. “It's very late.”

He made to leave, biting the inside of his cheek. His mind was a storm of conflicted emotions and he feared staying any longer wouldn't do him or Thranduil any good. He needed some time to think.

But then Thranduil's voice rose; it was the first time it sounded unsure, maybe slightly afraid, to Bard's ears.

“Bard, wait.”

Bard stopped, took a deep breath before he turned around to meet the blue of Thranduil's gaze.

“You are tired and the night is dark and cold. The ride home, however short, could be dangerous,” Thranduil said, and Bard knew he was right; he wanted to close his eyes and not wake up until the morning came.

Bard did for a second; he closed his eyes and when he opened them up again, Thranduil was back in front of him and his hand was on his shoulder. Bard didn't know what to see in his eyes, he couldn't read it; but if he saw anything, it was that Thranduil wasn't upset, or disgusted, that his soul had found a perfect match in another man's.

There was doubt and uncertainty, but there was also a small light in the depth of Thranduil's gaze, and if Bard didn't know what it meant exactly, it still lifted a weight from his chest; Thranduil wasn’t sending him off or running away.

What Thranduil said next was a whisper. It sounded like a wish, or at least much more than it seemed.

“You should stay.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> so there's that
> 
> but they're idiots so this is still a slow-burn don't worry :3
> 
> Thank you to [Iza](http://archiveofourown.org/users/Piyo13/) for betaing this <3


	7. Hazel and Blue

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I apologize in advance if this chap is a bit messy, but I did my best and I hope you'll enjoy it!

“You should stay.”

Thranduil let go of Bard's shoulder, feeling a light tingling in his fingers.

He was having a hard time believing what was happening to him. Thranduil had always been aware of his attraction towards men and women alike, though he had never displayed it and so avoided problems; but it didn't make this any less surprising. He had never thought he would be one of those rare people who found a second match.

But then, he had never thought he would be interested in anyone else either. Yet, here Bard was.

Thranduil took a step back, but his eyes didn't leave Bard's hazel ones. He had never been a touchy person, but maybe the colours—the match—explained why he didn't mind Bard's contact as much as anyone else’s. If he even minded at all, to be completely honest. It wasn’t the only reason, but perhaps it had at least helped make him allow the touch sooner.

Bard stared at him for a moment, and Thranduil thought he was going to say no. But then his shoulders lost of their tension, slumping, as if in defeat or tiredness, and he gave a small nod of his head.

“Alright,” Bard finally whispered.

Thranduil gestured to the kitchen, so as to not wake up the children with their conversation.

He leaned against the oven, doing his best to look composed, even though his eyes immediately searched for Bard's when he turned to him.

“Bain can take a guestroom, Tilda and Sigrid the other one.” Thranduil paused then, realizing he was confronted to one small problem. “And you—”

“I'll take the couch,” Bard offered with a shrug.

“That is out of the question.”

“Why not?”

“I don't let my guests sleep on the couch, and I don't have enough blankets to keep you warm here anyway,” Thranduil said, aware of Bard's injury. His tone left no place for discussion. “I'll take it.”

“And I'm not letting my host sleep on the couch in his own home,” Bard snapped back, crossing his arms against his chest.

Thranduil rolled his eyes, slightly exasperated but somehow also amused by Bard's determination.

“I have a double bed,” Thranduil pointed out, though the proposition made him feel a little awkward. Bard stared at him once again, surely not sure if he was being serious or not. “That, or I take the couch.”

“Fine then,” Bard sighed, waving his hand dismissively.

“Wake them up, get them to the guest rooms, then get yourself to bed as well. It's the first room after the stairs. You'll find a night shirt in the closet,” Thranduil instructed gently. “I'll bring tea.”

Once Bard was out of the kitchen, having left with a small, uncertain smile, Thranduil let out a shaky breath he hadn’t known he’d been holding. He ran his hands down his face and let his thoughts wander freely. Colour. He had seen colour and it hadn't faded away as soon as it had come; his soul had found a match in Bard's.

Thranduil felt lost and confused. He didn't like those feelings much. He didn't like how Bard made him feel; he didn't know what it all meant. Thranduil liked to have control over his emotions and yet here he was, wondering what was happening to him. 

He had thought, for a while, that he just liked Bard. That the way he was opening up to him so fast was simply because Bard had become a friend. Thranduil had been lying to himself of course—he didn't treat Elrond in the same way. But this evening, Thranduil had realized that he didn't just like Bard; he _really_ liked him.

A part of him knew he should be scared, and stop it all. Another didn't care, for he craved Bard's company and had found in him someone he simply didn't want to be parted from, something that hadn't happened in a very long time. There was no reason to fear, as long as he kept his emotions down and didn't let it grow into more; but what would happen, if they shared those feelings and let them grow? What would happen then, if they were discovered? What would happen to the children if their fathers were sent to prison, or worse?

It was risky, scary—but Thranduil had decided, as they danced, that he didn't want to break what they had over possibilities. He would keep his emotions under control, like he always did, and everything would be fine.

But now there were the colours. He knew what they meant and what they implied. Thranduil didn't want to put too much thought into it yet; he wasn't sure he could accept it right now, but he believed himself capable of it in the future, if it hadn’t already happened. Maybe it explained why he had put his trust in Bard so quickly.

Thranduil shook his head as he poured water into cups, wondering why it was all so complicated.

It was all going so fast, wasn't it?

But then, he had fallen in love with his wife on sight, so maybe this wasn't that fast. Maybe he was just trying to find excuses. Maybe he should just accept that he really was falling for Bard and—

Thranduil shook his head again, took hold of the cups and left the kitchen. He should not feed such thoughts, and instead try to concentrate on the present and keep things to what they were; a good, soon to be coloured friendship.

When he got back in the living room, it was empty. Only Mr. Whiskerson remained, running from an end of the room to the other as if his life depended on it, his tail big and curved.

“That cat is crazy,” Thranduil muttered to himself as he went up the stairs.

He peeked into each room and went to kiss Legolas goodnight before going to his own.

The light was on, and Bard was sitting on the left side of the bed; he was wearing one of Thranduil's night shirts as he had been instructed, and he was pinching the bridge of his nose with one hand, massaging his knee with the other.

Thranduil had seen such an injury many times, and he had guessed Bard's condition over the past three weeks, but it didn't stop a lump from forming in his throat as he took in the prosthesis by the bed and the empty space that was Bard's leg for the first time.

He collected himself, though, and let his presence be known with a softly spoken question.

“Should be large enough for the both of us, don't you think?”

Bard turned to him then, and chuckled. That Bard felt comfortable enough with him not to hide his stump, like many would have, made Thranduil's heart squeeze lightly in his chest.

“Aye. For you to have such a large bed, I'm guessing I'll wake up with your arm over my face.” He paused, laughed quietly again, as if for himself. “Your leg wouldn't even surprise me.”

Thranduil pretended to be offended as he got closer and handed Bard his cup of tea.

“Don't insult me or I'll make you sleep on the couch,” he warned with a raised eyebrow.

“Maybe I should just keep going then,” Bard replied back, his tone amused and Thranduil couldn't help his smirk.

“I'll go change,” Thranduil said. “I'll be right back.”

When Thranduil came back into the room, Bard had his back against the headboard and he was sipping his tea, looking like he was enjoying it and seeming lost in his thoughts.

Movement caught Bard’s eye and their gazes met; the colours were still there, soft and comforting.

But they didn't say anything, and Thranduil took his place on his side of the bed, getting under the covers.

“Tonight went well,” Bard simply said, not looking up from his cup. Thranduil saw that he wasn’t tensed, and that there was the ghost of a smile on his lips.

“Legolas is going to talk about it for weeks,” Thranduil agreed, then drank a bit of his tea.

They finished their drinks in silence, Thranduil lost in thought, and something told him the same went for Bard, for the air was neither tensed or uncomfortable. He thought about the past weeks, how his affection for Bard had grown with each passing day, without him even realizing where it led.

And now here he was, sharing his bed with his friend, drinking tea, and trying not to think about what was at hand's reach. Thranduil stored those thoughts in a corner of his mind as he looked upon Bard, who was looking at him as well, eyes searching and curious. Thranduil found their colour particularly beautiful.

“What is it?” he asked.

“Nothing.” Bard shrugged, and put the empty cup aside.

Then he buried himself into the covers, his head on the pillow, and let out a happy sigh which made Thranduil roll his eyes, though it was more fond than anything else. Soon after, Thranduil turned off the light, and made himself comfortable as well.

“Goodnight,” he heard Bard say.

“Goodnight, Bard,” was Thranduil's answer.

There were only their steady breaths to break the silence as Thranduil stared into the semi-darkness; the light of the moon illuminated the room enough that he could see Bard's form at the other end of the bed, away from his reach.

Who would have known that by coming to this town, he would have found a friend. That he would find a soul match in that friend was even more unexpected. Or was it? Thranduil sighed; he wasn't sure what to think about it all, and decided the night would bring him answers, as was said.

“Aren't we going to talk about it?” Bard asked quietly after a moment, as if he knew Thranduil hadn't fallen asleep yet.

“What is there to say?” Thranduil said, though his tone held nothing cold.

Bard didn't say anything after that, and when Thranduil heard him mumble something about “Tilda’s stupid pink dog”, Thranduil guessed Bard was dreaming, and finally let sleep claim him.

Bard's presence in the bed had made it warmer; that was what Thranduil felt when he woke up the next morning. He rolled onto his back, and turned his head towards the other end of the bed. Bard was still asleep, and he had company. Thranduil had to retain a chuckle; Mr. Whiskerson had taken a spot on Bard's chest, but the cat's head rested on his cheek. They made quite a funny picture.

Thranduil sighed as an idea crossed his mind; he liked to stay in bed for a little while, but... he got up as silently as possible, and went to retrieve his camera downstairs.

The clock on the wall read 7:47. Thranduil winced at the mess that was now his living room; there were cat toys and pillows everywhere, and the table hadn't been cleaned yet. As much as the evening had been pleasant and memorable, the cleaning up would be much less of a good time.

Thranduil found the camera easily (it had been left above the fireplace) and went back upstairs. When he had a look in the other bedrooms, he found all the children were still asleep. Thranduil came back into his, turned on the bedside lamp, and sat on the bed.

Thranduil took a picture, then another, only to find Bard frowning at him when he looked up again.

“What on Earth are you doing?” Bard muttered, voice still heavy from sleep, his hand finding Mr. Whiskerson's neck and stroking it with care; the cat's head shot up and quickly his purr could be heard, low and content.

“What does it look like I'm doing?” Thranduil smirked.

Bard rolled his eyes, gently getting Mr. Whiskerson away from his face so that the cat could settle lower on his chest instead.

“I hope you know it's too late,” Thranduil said, waving the camera lightly.

Bard muttered something about how there was no more respect for privacy those days, as Thranduil got back under the covers.

“Don't you dare show those to the kids,” Bard warned, though his tone was one of teasing. “Or anyone else for that matter.”

“I wouldn't dare,” Thranduil reassured him, though he did plan on giving one of the pictures to Bain once they were developed, as it would make quite an amusing souvenir, and Thranduil was sure Bard's family would love to keep it.

“You're lying, aren't you?” Bard squinted, then with one hand keeping Mr. Whiskerson in place, he managed to half-rise and get the camera out of Thranduil's hands.

Before Thranduil could recompose himself, Bard had taken a picture which would certainly not do him justice in any way; he was still in his night shirt, surely looked mockly scandalised, and worst of all—

“Amazing bed hair, by the way,” Bard commented with a laugh, and put the camera aside. “Now we're even.”

“Yours is not any better, if you want to know.”

Bard didn't stop chuckling. It held no bitterness, just amusement; he seemed pleased to have found a way to have revenge. Thranduil smiled too, and in that moment the warmth in his chest felt soft and comforting, like the morning sun.

“Did you sleep well?” Thranduil asked then, playing absently with a lock of his hair.

“Except for the fact that I've been breathing fur for a while, yes,” Bard said, calming his laugh down. “Haven't slept that well in a while, actually.”

Thranduil couldn't help but wonder if it was because of the warmth of the bed, or something else. He merely nodded, as he felt Bard's gaze on him.

“Did you?” Bard asked, and there was something particularly gentle in his voice.

“Yes,” Thranduil answered honestly, and finally looked right at Bard; despite the low light, he could still discern the colour in his eyes. It hadn't been a dream, then. Thranduil wondered what Bard was thinking in that instant; Thranduil hadn't been surprised by his lack of reaction, when colours had been revealed to them. Not after seeing how he cared about Thorin and Bilbo not being discovered.

Maybe he was like him. Whatever Thranduil was exactly.

Mr. Whiskerson chose that moment to stand up and stretch lazily. He went to Thranduil, stumbling a little on the sheets.

“Ah, good,” Thranduil said, patting Mr. Whiskerson's head. “I thought he didn't like me anymore.”

“Nah, he just likes me more.” Bard laughed, getting closer to pet the cat as well.

Thranduil was glad Bard seemed to be in such a good mood so early in the morning; he was actually surprised to be in one as well. Thranduil had never been one for waking up early. In winter, he liked to sleep until the sun woke him, but today he found he didn't mind.

They made small talk for a while longer, giving Mr. Whiskerson all the attention he asked for. Thranduil found it odd how so easy things were between them; despite those colours they now shared and all that it could mean, it seemed the night had finished soothing the little bit of tension of the end of the evening.

He had been right, Thranduil thought. Everything would be fine.

They decided to rise though, for the shower wouldn't come to them and breakfast wouldn't prepare itself. Thranduil went to the bathroom and prepared towels and washcloths for Bard and his children while Bard put on his prosthesis and picked up his clothes.

Thranduil waited for his turn by absently playing with Mr. Whiskerson (which gained him a few scratches) and braiding his hair.

Once they were both ready, Thranduil proposed they didn't wake the children up yet; the night had been long for them, and it would give the adults time to clean up a little and prepare breakfast in peace, without Tilda, Sigrid, and Legolas running around and asking every two minutes when it would be ready.

“What a mess,” Bard muttered as they entered the living room.

“Maybe I should hire someone,” Thranduil mused; as much as he loved his home to be clean and presentable, cleaning up always felt like a pain.

“You could hire me for the day,” Bard said with a shrug.

Thranduil stared at him until he let himself give a small smile, and nodded.

“Looks like you've got yourself another job, Bard.”

“Indeed, sir.” Bard grinned. “Where should I start?”

Thranduil instructed him to help with breakfast first, then with the dishes. Bard was done cleaning up the table and setting it when Bain joined them, followed by all the rest of the children; they were dragging their feet, but seemed to get their enthusiasm back when Mr. Whiskerson appeared behind them and went to rub at their legs.

“Good morning,” Thranduil greeted them as he put a plate of scrambled eggs on the table.

“Good morning!” Legolas, Sigrid and Tilda said in unison, before they sat. Immediately, the cat went to sit on Legolas' lap.

Bard just waved, as he had a way too large piece of bread in his mouth, which made Bain and Thranduil roll their eyes. Bard chuckled, bit into the bread, and finally said, “Hello, slept well?”

The children laughed, and when they were all sat down with drinks, eggs, beans, and toast, happy chatter filled the room. And Thranduil... Thranduil couldn't help the smile that lightened up his face.

Maybe this was all for the best. Bard, the children, the colours. Things hadn't felt more right in a long time, and he hoped it wouldn't be taken away from him, for it would pain him greatly.

It was unsettling, to feel this way so fast, but that was the feeling Bard and his family brought upon him, and there was nothing Thranduil could do but let that light warmth settle in his chest, as if he always had a fireplace within him, to make him feel safe and warm and comfortable wherever he went.

As they ate he met Bard's eyes more than once; in those moments they exchanged a knowing look and tried not to get lost in each other's colour. Thranduil found it difficult not to think about the bond that would grow between them, for it was odd; he didn't feel awkward about it, but, most importantly, he felt as if he had known about it for a long time, which made its reveal unsurprising the more he had thought about it during the night.

From the beginning, Bard had made his way into his life at a fast pace, and Thranduil had let him. Thranduil was certain of it; they had been attracted to each other from the first days, and it was no destiny, no soul match that had made things so. It had just happened.

That was why he didn't feel at loss anymore, now that the surprise had passed, why Bard probably didn’t either, why they hadn’t found anything to say about it yet; why would they, when they had created a bond of their own in the first place?

Thranduil hadn't expected the colours, and by that he had been surprised and confused, but it stopped there.

In the end, cleaning up wasn't so much of a pain, with Bard helping while Bain made sure Tilda, Sigrid, and Legolas got bathed and dressed before they went to play in the garden on the swings and the toboggan.

Before noon the dishes were done, and the kitchen and the living room were as clean as before New Year's Eve left its mark.

“We should go now,” Bard told him gently as he picked Mr. Whiskerson up from the table and put him back on the ground.

“Already?” Thranduil said. He knew how disappointed he sounded.

“Aye. We weren’t supposed to stay in the first place, remember?” Bard reminded him, reaching for his arm and giving it a light squeeze. “And I have to check on the animals, feed them. Give them some love.”

Thranduil slowly nodded, understanding Bard had a life as well and many others to take care of. No matter how he wished for him to stay, he had no say on the matter, and some things were more important than keeping him company when others needed it more.

“I'll go get your coats,” Thranduil said, getting out of Bard's grip.

He watched as Bain and Bard helped the girls get dressed. Then the girls came to him, holding up their hands to shake.

“A pleasure to have spent such a lovely time in your company, m'ladies.”

Tilda and Sigrid giggled as he shook their hands.

“Thank you, mister Thranduil,” Sigrid beamed, under the fond gaze of her father.

“How many times will I have to tell you to just call me Thranduil?” he told her gently.

“Yes, Thranduil,” she said shyly, though she was still smiling.

To that, Bard cleared his throat and patted Tilda's head, and she seemed to remember something she had been meant to say.

“Thank you Thranduil,” she said, then leant forward slightly, as if to tell him a secret. “Your breakfast is much better than da's.”

Bard frowned, but said nothing; amusement showed in his gaze as he pretended to be offended. It made the girls laugh. Bain just rolled his eyes as he shook Thranduil's hand as well, thanking him for the great evening they had spent here.

“That's true though,” he added with a shrug, and this time Bard glared at Thranduil, though his gaze held no anger in the slightest. Thranduil smirked in answer.

Then they all said goodbye to Legolas, who seemed rather disappointed to see them go. Thranduil accompanied them to the car, shook Bard's hand before he got in. As he closed the door, Bard sent him a small smile and a meaningful look.

“I still believe we should talk about it.”

And at that, Bard closed the door and drove away, the children waving at him and Legolas from the windows.

“Talk about what, ada?” Legolas asked Thranduil, tugging at his sleeve.

“Nothing, son,” Thranduil said as he took his hand. He believed it was too soon to talk about what had happened between Bard and himself to any of the children. “Nothing.”

Thranduil led Legolas back to the house, and let out a sigh as he sat on the couch. It felt suddenly empty, without Bard and his children around. Legolas went to sit next to him with Mr. Whiskerson already in his arms, and peered up at him curiously.

“What are you thinking about?” he asked, letting the cat settle on his lap.

Thranduil hummed pensively, not knowing what he should tell Legolas and what he should not.

“Are you thinking about Bard?”

Thranduil chuckled; it seemed there was little he could hide from his son.

“Maybe,” Thranduil told him, raising an eyebrow at him upon seeing Legolas' knowing expression.

“He makes you happy.”

Legolas sounded proud of his statement, his eyes not leaving his father's and Thranduil didn't know what there was to read in them.

“Yes—” Thranduil admitted, though a little reluctantly.

“It's okay,” Legolas said. “He makes me happy too.”

Thranduil laughed this time, but Legolas' words warmed up his heart; he doubted Bard made Legolas happy in the same way, but it still touched him. The boy was smiling brightly as he leaned his side against his father's, and Thranduil closed his arm around Legolas' shoulders.

“Ada?”

“Yes?”

“They won't ever leave, right?” The question was spoken quietly. “Like mum?”

Thranduil closed his eyes, sighed.

“We all leave someday,” he answered softly. “Sometimes sooner than we should.”

Legolas snuggled more against his side, seeking comfort where he knew he would find it, but didn't say anything.

“But—” Thranduil didn't want to lie, but he couldn't leave Legolas hanging onto such words. Maybe many parents wouldn't have said them in the first place, but Thranduil believed Legolas was old and had seen enough to hear them. “—I do not think Bard or his children will leave any time soon, and certainly not without a chance to say goodbye.”

Legolas just nodded, but he looked up to Thranduil and smiled.

“Why, Legolas?” Thranduil wondered why such a thought had crossed Legolas' mind, and so he asked.

Legolas didn't answer immediately. He looked down to Mr. Whiskerson, stroke his fur for a moment, and Thranduil was beginning to believe he wouldn't get any answer, when finally Legolas spoke.

“Because I want you to stay happy.”

No words came to Thranduil; he just bent down to kiss the top of Legolas' head, and stroked his hair. 

“They're not going anywhere,” he whispered. “And we're not either.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> So I'm feeling a bit insecure about this chapter even though my lovely beta kept reassuring me! I didn't think straight while writing it so yeah, I hope it's fine!
> 
> Thank you [Iza](http://archiveofourown.org/users/Piyo13/) for editing this chapter, and being so supportive <3 
> 
> I can't promise you'll get the next chapter next Monday. I have to put less pressure on myself in general, so I'll try to update every week, but it might take a little longer. I'll try to avoid making you wait more than two weeks though! The whole story is plotted, I know exactly where I'm going, I just need to take my time to write and not rush anything (not that I did before but still, I'm quite ill-stressed lately) :) If everything goes as planned this story should end with 17 chapters.
> 
> And I am so, so happy you're enjoying this story! I'll never thank Manna enough for drawing the doodle comic that inspired it, and you all for taking the time to read it. I'm truly loving every step of the way.


	8. Home

Legolas could barely stay in place; he kept running from the school's gates to his father's legs, holding his hand, asking the same questions, then running back to the gates again. If Thranduil had to be completely honest, he was starting to regret going a little early, though there was something rather adorable about Legolas' behavior. It was good, to see his son so enthusiastic about going to school again. 

There were other parents as well, gathered around the school; mothers mostly, keeping their children close when they weren't talking to or playing with each other. Thranduil knew the thing to do would have been to go and make conversation, but he wasn't really interested in the town's gossip, which he could already hear from where he stood. It wasn't as if he felt the need to talk to anyone, anyway.

He had other matters on his mind, much more important and attention-worthy.

Thranduil wondered when Bard would arrive. They had crossed paths the day before and Bard had told him he would bring the girls to school; but he wasn't there yet. Thranduil found this surprising, for he had quickly noticed how Bard was a morning person, and had every reason to arrive sooner than everyone else. He hoped neither he nor the children had caught the cold that was spreading across town. Or maybe he would arrive just in time, like he usually did when Thranduil invited him ove—

“Oh hello, Thranduil.”

Thranduil spunned around to meet a familiar face. Celebrian, Elrond's wife, had just stopped beside him, letting go of her twins' hands. They immediately went to meet Legolas by the gates, their cries of joy quickly overcoming the others, while Arwen stayed by her mother's side.

“Good morning, Celebrian,” Thranduil greeted politely. He made a small bow of his head and she smiled kindly to him. “Hello, Arwen.”

The girl smiled as well, swaying shyly on her feet.

“Hello,” she said, then straightened her school bag on her shoulders as she looked up to Celebrian. “Mum, can I go see Aragorn?”

“Of course. Have a good day at school,” Celebrian said, and in an instant Arwen was gone in the little crowd, making her mother roll her eyes fondly. “Friends are always so much more interesting, aren't they?”

“Tell me about it,” Thranduil replied, eyeing Legolas, who seemed taken in a deep conversation with Elladan and Elrohir. He was making wide gestures of his arms and his eyes were sparkling with enthusiasm. Legolas hadn't stopped talking about going to school with Sigrid, Tilda, and Elrond's children for the past few days, along with how much he had loved spending the new year with Bard and his family.

But they hadn't been able to properly meet since then, and Thranduil found he missed Bard more than he dared to admit.

Thranduil had been busy working with Elrond, who had been submerged with patients complaining of their persisting cold, which made seeing Bard difficult. Thranduil hadn't complained, but he knew Elrond was aware of his distracted mind; it kept going back to New Year's Eve, and he guessed it wouldn't take long for his friend to start asking questions.

“I'm sorry, Thranduil,” Celebrian said, snapping him back to the present. “I wish I could talk more, but now is a good time to go get what Elrond asked me for. Will you keep an eye on them until the school opens?”

Thranduil blinked, then nodded and gave a half-smile.

“No need to apologize,” he answered. “I’ll see you soon.”

Celebrian thanked him and left, soon disappearing at the corner of the street after a last wave of her hand. Thranduil let out a sigh as he checked the hour and shivered; he had never liked going out too early in the morning, particularly at this time of the year. It was always colder than it needed to be.

For the last few minutes until the opening of the school, Thranduil's eyes didn't leave Legolas and Elrond's children. It was only when two young girls appeared in his field of view and he realized who they were—Sigrid and Tilda—that he looked away to search for Bard; but he didn't see him.

The school's doors opened then, and Legolas runned back to him to give him a quick hug.

“Stay with your friends and have a good day, alright?” Thranduil told him gently. He didn't have much to fear, but he couldn't help worrying his son's first day at school wouldn't go as well as he hoped.

“Yesdon'tworrybyeada!” Legolas exclaimed in one go, peering up at Thranduil with a wide smile before he went away, his school bag hopping in his hand.

Only once the crowd of parents began to disperse did Thranduil notice Bain looking around with a frown on his face, at the other end of the street. Their gazes met and he walked quickly towards Thranduil, who didn't like much the line on the teenager’s forehead.

“Hello,” Bain said as he halted before him, and didn't stop to let Thranduil answer. “Are you doing anything today?”

Thranduil blinked, surprised by the sudden question.

“Elrond might still need some help,” he replied carefully. “Why, is your father alright?”

Bain laughed nervously, stuffed his hands in his pockets, and met Thranduil's eyes.

“He would be if he'd let me take care of the shelter for a day,” Bain said, sounding rather exasperated and rolling his eyes. “He didn't sleep for most of the night. We got a call about an abandoned dog hiding somewhere in Arathorn's street. He went to retrieve it instead of asking me to go, and the night's been very cold.”

Thranduil pinched the bridge of his nose, and retained a sigh; somehow this wasn't unexpected in any way. He had heard many stories from Bain, and even Elrond, about how Bard had serious issues with overworking and taking care of himself. It was something Thranduil was quickly noticing too, and it was becoming a source of many worries.

“I thought you could maybe talk some sense to him,” Bain finished, his shoulders slumping and his eyes almost pleading.

“Of course,” Thranduil agreed without a second thought. “I'll come as soon as I can.”

“Thank you.” Bain's smile was small, but Thranduil could see all the gratitude on his face. “I'll see you later, then.”

Bain left with a wave of his hand, his gait hurried and his scarf flowing in the wind.

Thranduil straightened the hat on his head, then gave a last look to the school and the children disappearing through the doors before he walked away. He went to Elrond's, hoping his friend wouldn't need too much of his help today. But Thranduil was sure Elrond would understand; he had mentioned once how good it was for Bard to finally have someone other than his son caring for him.

Thranduil shook his head; he could guess why Bard acted this way, and would talk to him about it. He just wished Bard would realize that despite his good intentions, he couldn't ignore his own well-being. 

Thranduil entered Elrond's house, whose door was open, after a quiet five minute walk against the icy wind of winter, through the quiet streets of that Monday morning. Thranduil immediately went for the place he knew Elrond would be; in his office, getting ready for the day.

Elrond's brows furrowed upon seeing the frown on Thranduil's face as he entered the room. He stood and went to shake Thranduil's hand as a silent welcome.

“Is everything alright?” he asked, and Thranduil gave a small nod of his head.

“The cold has calmed down, today should be quieter,” Thranduil stated. “Do you think my help necessary today?”

Elrond inspected him, as if trying to figure out what was the matter. Then he smiled, something of a knowing look on his face.

“Let me guess,” he said, “Bard?”

Thranduil glared at him.

“Yes,” he replied carefully. “I don't think the word 'rest' is a part of his vocabulary.”

Elrond slowly nodded, before he went back to his chair.

“You're right, I should be able to deal on my own,” Elrond said. “You've helped me enough; go to Bard, get him to rest.”

Thranduil had to retain a sigh of relief, which then turned into exasperation as he took in the way Elrond was looking at him; he didn't like that look at all.

“What is it?” Thranduil asked, even though he knew exactly what was crossing his friend's mind. They knew each other too well.

“Nothing.” Elrond shrugged. “You just spend a lot of time with him.”

He raised a finger before Thranduil could answer, a smirk on his face.

“Don't tell me 'he's my friend',” Elrond warned. “I'm your friend too and I don't see you half as much as him.”

Thranduil just stared; he didn't know what to say. He wasn't surprised that Elrond didn't seem to mind at all. It was a conversation they had had a few times in the past, and Elrond had always been very open about such subjects.

“Be careful, my friend,” Elrond said then, sounding suddenly much more serious. Thranduil knew what he meant, and it sent a shiver down his spine.

“Don't worry,” Thranduil replied. “I have it under control.”

“Of course you do.” Elrond paused, searching Thranduil's eyes. Thranduil leant against the wall, deciding to ignore the slight amused sarcasm in Elrond's voice, but didn't look down. “There's something else, isn't there?”

Thranduil held Elrond's gaze for a moment, unsure if he should talk or keep it to himself. But Elrond could be trusted, and his opinion, should he decide to give it, would be welcomed.

“Colours,” Thranduil said, and Elrond frowned. “His eyes are hazel.”

“Fascinating,” was Elrond's sincere answer. “I mean, I know it happens, but it really is fascinating.”

“It's trouble,” Thranduil replied before he could stop himself, though those weren’t his only thoughts; he was glad for the colours, but it didn't mean he had to ignore everything else.

Elrond sent him an apologetic look as he clasped his hands on his desk.

“It might be, in your situation,” Elrond admitted, then smiled again. “But you haven't run away.”

Thranduil knew exactly what his friend was thinking; and he was right, but Thranduil believed he had his feelings under control. He was perfectly capable of sharing such a bond with Bard without them getting in the way, at the risk of putting their families into trouble. It would all be fine.

But they had to keep it quiet. Friendship around a soul bond existed, but people were people; they would see things where there was nothing to see or nothing officialized, and make assumptions too quickly. Were they a man and a woman, it wouldn't be a problem; but two men's souls matching always gave birth to rumours which were easily believed, and fists could be out without much thinking.

Certainly this town wasn't any different. There had to be a reason for so few people knowing about Bilbo and Thorin, and Thranduil easily guessed it wasn't a good one in any way.

“Bard matters a lot to me, it’s true,” Thranduil confessed, before he straightened and gestured towards the door. “But I won't let it bring more loss on our families.”

Elrond only nodded his agreement, his attention turning back to the papers on his desk.

“I'd better leave now,” Thranduil announced, straightening his coat around his shoulders. “I'll see you soon.”

“Goodbye, Thranduil,” Elrond said as he looked up, and offered one last smile. “And good luck, he can be quite stubborn.”

Thranduil gave a small nod of his head, and went to leave when he turned to face Elrond again.

“Oh and, Elrond?”

“Mmh?”

“Stop looking at me like that.”

Elrond chuckled and made a dismissive wave of his hand.

At that Thranduil left, thinking Bard was probably right about all this. They should talk about the colours, and he would make sure they would.

The walk to The Barking Barge felt much longer than it was; the cold bit at Thranduil's skin with fierceness, and he didn't want to imagine how colder the night had been. He huddled into his coat, going against the icy wind and walking carefully as to not slip on the snow covering the sidewalk.

Entering the shelter felt like a relief; its warmth and familiarity made Thranduil feel instantly safer and more comfortable. He had spent so much time in this place that it felt like coming home, and God knew he would never have believed he would ever say that about an animal shelter.

Bain, who was shuffling through papers, seemed relieved to see that Thranduil had arrived; he winced, and gestured to the door at the other end of the room.

“He's with the new dog,” Bain said. “Thank you.”

“Anytime,” Thranduil replied, before he crossed the room and disappeared behind the door.

He went to the dog section, inspecting each cage before he found the one he was looking for; he didn't know if the sight before his eyes was sad or adorable. Thranduil concluded it was a little bit of both, but the way his heart clenched in his chest told him it pained him more than anything else.

Bard was sitting on the cold floor with his back against the wall, a rather big dog laying by his side, head on his lap. He seemed freshly cleaned, and Bard was stroking his fur gently, in an absent way. Bard’s eyes were almost closed and Thranduil was ready to bet he was half-asleep. He hadn't even noticed Thranduil's presence, even though the other dogs had increased their barking upon seeing him.

Thranduil frowned; as Bain had told him, Bard looked like a man who hadn't slept at all, and definitely needed a day off for once.

The dog wasn't afraid of Thranduil's presence; he just raised his head and looked up to him curiously. Thranduil took it as an assurance he could enter the cage without any risk. The dog’s reaction made Bard look up as well nonetheless, and surprise painted his face.

“Thranduil?” he asked, as if he couldn't believe it was indeed Thranduil who stood before him.

“Bard,” Thranduil just said, his expression softening. It reminded him of their second meeting at the shelter. Bard appeared to remember as well, for he relaxed and a small smile lightened up his face.

Thranduil tried hard not to stare at the hazel of Bard's eyes. So he extended his hand, and made a move of his head towards the door.

“I didn't expect you today,” Bard said, tilting his head slightly to the side. “Not that I mind, of course. Also, this is Samaân.”

“Hello, Samaân,” Thranduil greeted, and got a slow blink from the dog in return. He brought his attention back to Bard, and spoke softly. “Can we talk?”

Bard's brows furrowed as he inspected Thranduil's face. Then he sighed, as if realizing what Thranduil was here for.

“I don't need a babysitter,” he said through gritted teeth, but he sighed and gently pushed the dog's head away anyway. He took hold of his crutch with one hand and Thranduil's with the other, and stood up.

Bard's wince as he got on his feet didn't escape Thranduil's attention. He patted the dog's head one last time before he lead the way out of the 'dog territory'. Bard leaned heavily on his crutch, accentuating his limp, and Thranduil could tell how little strength he actually had today.

Bard seemed utterly exhausted, and it simply wouldn't do.

“Bain, I suppose?” Bard asked, then shook his head before he could get an answer. “He shouldn't worry about me.”

“I do, too,” Thranduil informed as he followed Bard in the cats' room. “That’s what friends and family do.”

“Well, you shouldn't,” Bard replied, turning towards him and meeting his eyes, before he sat down on the first chair he found, putting his crutch on the floor. “I can deal. I have for years, it won't change now.”

Thranduil shook his head, and picked up a cat who had approached them curiously.

“I know.” He sat on the chair next to Bard's, so as to not look down on his friend, and watched another cat running towards them to rub at their legs. “But now you have a choice that you didn’t have before; your son is old enough, he can manage as well. You have to allow yourself to rest on days like this one. It isn't good on the long term.”

“There's no need,” Bard insisted. His hand was slightly shaking as he petted the cat on Thranduil’s lap. “I'm doing fine.”

“You're exhausted. How long has it been since you last slept properly? New Year's Eve?” Bard didn't answer, but held his gaze. “Winter is harsh on you; most days are good because you're careful to stay warm, but the cold makes your stump feel as if it's been frozen, and it hurts like hell. Sometimes it stays even after the cold, and you feel as if the pain is so strong that you'll never be able to walk without your cane again.”

Bard just stared at him, close to half-gaping, certainly surprised to hear his pain being put into words by someone other than himself, someone who didn't know what it was like, who’d probably never have to live with it.

“All are different, but I've seen cases similar to yours before,” Thranduil explained quietly. “There's no need to pretend. You shouldn’t push yourself more than you can take. Sleep and rest, if you don't want the weakness you bring upon yourself to make you fall sick. I'm surprised you didn't catch the cold that's been spreading around.”

“See, I'll be just fine.”

Thranduil had to retain a sigh. His own patience surprised him; were it anyone other than Bard, he wouldn’t be so kind on them. But being understanding helped, allowed him to try to see Bard’s situation from his eyes.

“Bard, you've got nothing to prove.”

It didn’t always work.

“I have everything to prove, Thran!” Bard exclaimed, his tone slightly rising though he still looked calm. “I am a single father with three children. I have to be strong for them; I can't be the father who looks weak in the eyes of his seventeen year old son and lets him be a man before it's time.”

“We're not asking you to give up, nor to make him feel like an adult when he isn't one,” Thranduil tried again. “Just to rest when you need it. You won't look any less strong in the eyes of your children. And Bain—”

Thranduil reached for Bard's wrist, gave it a light squeeze.

“He saw you go to war and come back. He saw you heal, catch up on the time lost, give him two sisters, and rebuild his family. He sees you caring for beings weaker than you every day. You'll never be anything but a hero to him.” Thranduil's tone was softer than he believed himself capable of, but he meant every word. “All he wants is a chance to _prove to you_ that you can rest, take the days off you deserve, without feeling guilty of leaving him to manage. It won't make him a man. It will just prepare him.”

Bard didn't say anything for a long time, but Thranduil could see how the tension in his body had progressively faded away.

“Think about it; at the least, he'll worry less, and you'll stop complaining,” Thranduil said after a while, trying to sound lighter than he felt.

Bard chuckled to that, and finally detached his eyes from the cats he had been paying attention to.

“I guess you're right,” he said carefully, then took a deep breath. “Fine, fine. Just let me do my job with those ones.”

Bard took back his crutch, stood up, and Thranduil watched as he checked on each cat. He was relieved Bard was going to listen to his son for once, even if it was just maybe for this one time. He hoped Bard would keep their conversation in mind the next time he was feeling as tired as he was today.

Once Bard made sure all the cats were alright, Thranduil followed him outside. Bain sent them an interrogating, hopeful look from the reception desk as Bard approached him and ruffled his hair.

“Bain, you're in charge, but get me if you need help,” Bard told him, in Thranduil guessed was his best dad voice. “Don't lose any of our friends, alright?”

Bain rolled his eyes, but his grin told more than any words.

“Sure, da.” His grin turned into a smirk, and he shrugged. “You two don't forget what personal space is like, alright?”

Bard didn't have to turn and face him for Thranduil to know he was blushing as furiously as he was.

“Don't say stupid things, son,” Bard muttered, then walked away, gesturing for Thranduil to follow him.

Thranduil glared at Bain, who returned a knowing look and chuckle, before he followed Bard upstairs. Only then did he realize he had no actual reason to spend any more time here, other than Bard wanting him to.

If he had to be quite honest, he didn't mind one bit, and it brought a smile to his face.

Thranduil had never been inside Bard's apartment before. It was bigger than it looked, but only the living room made it so. It felt cosy, with toys here and there, pictures on the walls, and a warm atmosphere that made it all feel like home.

“Apologies for the mess,” Bard said with a wince. “We didn't have time to clean up.”

Thranduil waved off his worry with a light pat on Bard's shoulder, before he went back to looking at his surroundings; he found that even though this place was nothing like his own, he liked it all the same. There was a history to it, and he could feel it all around him. This home had been built from nothing to become a place of hope, had seen love building, children growing up, birthdays and Christmases, good food and kisses in the warmth of the fireplace. There was a loneliness and a sadness too, lingering in the walls. Light and invisible, but there and not forgotten, for pain makes us as much as any other good things.

Yet in this home that wasn't his, filled with a story he wasn't a part of, Thranduil didn't feel like a stranger; he felt welcomed.

“Tea?” Bard asked with a nod towards the kitchen.

“No, thank you,” Thranduil said. “Breakfast wasn't so long ago.”

Bard nodded, and instead let himself fall on the couch with a heavy sigh. He patted the space next to him, smiling up at Thranduil, who didn't wait to be asked twice before he took off coat and hat and sat next to Bard. For a moment they said nothing; it wasn't unusual for them to share quietness and steady breaths. The other's company was enough, and had quickly become something they actually enjoyed.

“How did you lose her?” Bard asked then. Thranduil blinked, turned his head to meet Bard's eyes. He hadn’t expected such a question.

“Why do you ask?”

“When I called you 'Thran' earlier, you rubbed your ring,” Bard said quietly. “I just wondered, you don't have to answer.”

Thranduil hadn’t noticed, though he knew it was something he did often, when memories of his wife crossed his mind, sometimes even unconsciously.

“No one has called me that in a long time,” Thranduil replied. “But I don't mind that you do.”

Bard just nodded, and once again silence settled between them.

“She was sick,” Thranduil breathed after a little while. There was a lump in his throat and he wasn’t sure that sharing that part of his story, however briefly, was a good idea. But Bard was his friend, and there was no one who could understand better than him. He deserved it, too; Thranduil knew of Bard's weaknesses, but Bard didn't know any of his.

He didn't add anything else; Thranduil believed his body language said enough. Bard wasn't an idiot, he could put two and two together.

“Is that the reason you decided to retire?”

“Yes, and no,” was Thranduil's answer. “I took a break, of course, to take care of Legolas. He was one at the time. Three years later I started working again.” Thranduil inhaled deeply before he continued. “I always loved my job, kept doing it for a few more years, but it didn't feel the same anymore.”

“You feel guilty.”

“How could I not?” Thranduil looked Bard right in the eyes, and what he saw there was an understanding that wasn't faked in any way. It made the tension in his body lessen, though the lump in his throat didn't disappear. “I'm a doctor, and I couldn't save my own wife.”

Bard said nothing for a minute, and when he spoke again his voice was quiet and careful.

“How many couldn't you save?”

“What?”

“During the war, you were a doctor, weren't you,” Bard said. “How many couldn't you save?”

“Many.”

“How many did you save?”

Thranduil stared at Bard, searching his eyes but seeing nothing more, nothing different than what he had seen in them before.

“Many.”

Bard's arm found Thranduil's back, and his hand closed on his shoulder.

“There are things stronger than us, things that can go out of our control,” Bard whispered. “The people you couldn't heal don't lessen the value of the lives you saved.” He paused to let his thumb stroke Thranduil's shoulder. “It is normal, to blame yourself—it isn’t exactly the same, but God knows I blame myself every day for the lives I took—just don't let your remorse eat you, because it only brings more pain to your life than there already is.”

Thranduil smiled weakly. “Wise words.”

“What I mean is, your wife was your wife, but it didn't make her more than a human,” Bard continued, rubbing at his knee this time. “Just because you loved her didn't make her untouchable, didn't mean you had any more chances of saving her than you did of saving anyone else.”

Said by someone else, those words would have hurt and been unwelcomed. But Thranduil knew that Bard spoke for himself as well, that he was someone who didn't pretend to understand that pain. What Bard was trying to tell him rang in his ears, but in a soft, soothing way. His presence was confident and reassuring, and he was caring in his words and his gestures; it made Thranduil relax, feel the guilt that had resurfaced fade again, to only linger under the surface.

Bard was right, Thranduil knew he was, and would try to keep it in mind.

Thranduil looked at Bard, and asked a silent question.

“Childbirth,” was all he answered, making Thranduil’s heart clench at the thought of Tilda, never knowing her mother.

Bard didn't add more, just let his hand travel along Thranduil's shoulder blades—sending a shiver down his spine—until it rested on his lap once again. Just like the first time they had (briefly) talked about it, neither of them offered condolences; there was no need to. 

Bard's eyes didn't leave his; they were searching. And admiring, if the spark in them was anything to go by.

“Your wife, what was her name?”

Thranduil tilted his head slightly to the side.

“Lhaewel,” Thranduil replied. “What was yours?”

“Mira. She would adore you.” Bard smiled softly. “Would Lhaewel be okay with all this?”

Thranduil smiled in return. He didn't have to ask what Bard was talking about. He knew, and wondered as well.

“Yes, I believe so,” he answered honestly. His wife’s only wish had been for him and Legolas to be happy; and he was, today, more than he had ever been since her passing. “How do you feel about it?”

Bard took his time to answer; it didn't bother Thranduil, for what he was asking wasn't easy to answer in any way.

“I think we shouldn't throw away the chance we're being given,” Bard finally replied. He met Thranduil's gaze and didn't look down. “What makes the colours beautiful, it's not seeing them, no matter how pretty they look—”

“It's sharing them,” Thranduil finished, and this time he looked away, suddenly aware of how neither of them had anything to occupy their hands, of how close they were sitting. 

“I’ve missed them—and I don't mind sharing them with you,” Bard told him, and his voice held something particularly soft.

They were simple words, but Thranduil was aware—and he knew Bard was too—of how much they could mean, of what they could imply. He didn't dare look at him, for he wasn't sure what he would read in Bard's eyes. He feared to read what he wished to see, and be unable to calm down the pleasant warmth in his chest. Were he to face Bard, he feared he would kiss him. 

He had to stay in control.

Thranduil took a deep breath before he answered.

“I don't, either,” Thranduil said, painfully aware of the weight of Bard's gaze on him. “But we should keep it quiet. You know how people are.”

Thranduil guessed from the motion in the corner of his eye that Bard only nodded his agreement.

“This world isn't kind on people like us,” Thranduil added, aware of the double meaning of his words, but he didn't know how else to say it, and he had to anyway. “Even rumours can ruin a man's life, if he doesn't deal with them carefully.”

“It is none of those people's business, anyway.” Thranduil felt Bard's hand on his shoulder again; it was warm and comforting. “They don't need to know, but I understand your worry.” Bard paused and leant forward, trying to catch his gaze. “You’ve got beautiful eyes, did anyone ever tell you that?”

Thranduil faced him this time. He crossed his arms against his chest and raised a skeptical eyebrow.

“I don’t know what you’re trying to do, but you’re terrible at it.” His expression softened then, and his voice took a teasing tone. “Wait until you see my hair though.”

Bard chuckled, his hand going for a lock of Thranduil’s hair, with which he played absently.

“You know, one of the reasons I don’t take days off is because it means that I have to feel lonelier than I already do,” Bard said. “Bain’s downstairs, the girls are at school, and it’s not as if there’s _that_ much to do in the shelter.”

Thranduil glared at him. Taking care of the shelter didn’t seem like a tiring job, but he had watched Bard and Bain work many times; they were always running between the cats, the dogs, and the shop. It wasn’t easy in any way. Bard shrugged, ignoring Thranduil’s look.

“It just sounds better than staying here, staring at the wall, listening to the silence and feeling too useless and guilty to fall asleep, but—” Bard paused to look deep into Thranduil’s eyes. “But you and Bain are right, and it’s not that bad if someone’s here until sleep comes.”

Thranduil didn’t answer, but slowly nodded; he knew the feeling. What it felt like to think too much to sleep, to be too much aware of the empty space beside him where his love used to lay, to come home early and find no comfort in his broken home. But there was hope in Bard’s words, and knowing that he was the reason brought a small smile to his lips.

“I’m just glad you’re here,” Bard added in a quieter, more unsure way. 

Thranduil wanted to say it; that he was glad too, that there wasn’t anywhere he’d rather be than here. But he didn’t speak. He didn’t want to feed a fire that would best stay dead. 

“Someone’s got to make sure you won’t go back downstairs as soon as Bain has his back turned.”

Bard rolled his eyes, a muted kind of pain tainting them, though it disappeared as soon as it had come. He playfully though gently poked at Thranduil’s shoulder; it made the both of them chuckle despite themselves.

They said nothing more after that, letting their minds and hearts calm down and feed off the new mix of amusement and comfort in the air, after such a serious talk. 

It didn't take long for Thranduil to feel Bard's side against his, head resting on his shoulder; he had let his exhaustion take him to sleep. Thranduil smiled to himself as he put his arm around Bard's shoulders, breathing in the clean, soapy smell of his hair.

“Thank you,” he whispered, though Bard couldn't hear him. Thranduil didn’t know why he was saying it; he just knew he meant it, and that he didn’t have enough words to express in how many ways he did. 

Thranduil couldn't find the strength nor the will to push Bard away and leave, and so he stayed, and thought about all that had been said. He felt and listened. He listened to Bard's breath, felt the beating of his heart through the wrist he was holding onto, not daring to close his fingers on Bard’s hand.

Around him the room was quiet, save for the soft ticking of a clock. 

Without Thranduil realizing it, sleep unexpectedly claimed him, too; but before it did, there was one thought floating across his mind, spreading its warmth throughout his body and making his heart beat with a new, soft steadiness.

It felt right; it felt like home.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I'm sorry they just couldn't stop talking. I hope I didn't deal with those things too badly. I thought it would bring them closer and give them more depth. But fluff returns in the next chapter! :3 Also, things might happen. 
> 
> About the description of Bard's pain, I'd like to say those are pretty much the exact words of actual amputees. So I guess I'm not saying anything stupid.
> 
> As always, huge thanks to my beta [Iza](http://archiveofourown.org/users/Piyo13/), who's doing an amazing job! :D
> 
> All comments make my days <3 Thank you for reading!


	9. Better Times

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> A 6k chapter for you today, I hope you'll enjoy it! :D

Over the next few weeks, Bain couldn’t seem to stop mentioning how he had found Bard and Thranduil asleep on the couch whenever he got the chance. It was true that even though Thranduil didn't regret it one bit, being found by a teenager, with his head against his friend's and their hands and bodies close, wasn't really something one's child would easily forget.

They laughed about it, but Thranduil's laugh was never completely honest. He had no idea if Bard’s was the same.

It didn't stop them, however, from continuing to meet like this. As Bard slowly accepted rest when he needed it (which hopefully didn't happen too often), he had asked for Thranduil's house phone number, claiming it would be useful. He’d been right, and called in the morning when it was clear he was too tired to go through the day.

It happened a few times over the month and a half that passed (since Bard had clearly needed more than a day off at the beginning, to be completely back on his feet), and Thranduil always gladly agreed to come and keep Bard company until he fell asleep on the couch, or went to his bed, after they had their usual tea. Thranduil usually left after that, but sometimes he stayed and read a book, with or without his friend by his side.

Thranduil and Bain actually managed to convince Bard relatively quickly to take a day off every week, a day on which he could do whatever he wanted to, without having to keep an eye on the kids, like on Sundays. A day for himself, that he could spend where he wanted.

That day, he chose to spend with Thranduil.

Bain was the last person to complain of the new rhythm of life that had been set between their families; on the contrary, he seemed glad, even proud, that his father let him take care of the shelter, even though it was a lot of work. Bard often said he didn't like leaving him like this, running around the different sections, but Bain's motivation was strong and he had promised he would say so if things became too much. And he had, on the second week, asked if a friend of his could come and help. He was happy, and Thranduil knew it was the only thing Bard wished for.

And if things had not actually been bad for Bard and his family before, they were getting better all the same. Thranduil liked to think the same was true for him and Legolas, too. No, despite the worries that came with it all, he was sure of it—things were better.

It was after the first of those well-spent days that they found out that the colours had spread to other people's eyes. The colours usually appeared progressively, starting small and then saturating an object, until the whole world was coloured and there was something in their gut and their heart that told them it was complete. It was a wonderful feeling, one which Thranduil was looking forward to experience again.

But for the eyes, it was different; their colours always appeared at once.

Thranduil would always remember that day; they had come home, and as Tilda had run to her father's legs, Bard's hands had started shaking. He had picked her up, held her on his left hip, and stared into her eyes as if he was looking at one of the world's wonders, with the most beautiful smile Thranduil ever had the chance to see on his face.

It had been the first time Bard saw his daughter's eyes as they truly were.

Thranduil remembered how he had felt as if his heart was being warmed up, upon seeing his son's again.

He remembered how long time had seemed until the children were put to bed and Legolas had fallen asleep on the couch. How as soon as silence had fallen upon Bard's living room, he had seen Bard look fragile, but smiling.

Thranduil had wished to wipe the tears of joy Bard was trying to hide from his cheeks, but he hadn't dared.

He remembered, and tried to remind himself that moments like the one he had witnessed that day was the reason it was all worth it.

And that was what he thought, as he walked through the forest around his home on a slightly warmer Sunday afternoon, Bain far ahead with Sigrid, while Legolas and Tilda ran around, looking for the dragons Bard had told Legolas about when they had first met.

Unfortunately, they weren't very successful.

“Adaaa!” Legolas ran to Thranduil and tugged at his father's sleeve, peering up at him desperately. “Where are the dragons?”

Thranduil exchanged a look with Bard, who couldn't help the small smile on his lips.

“Maybe they're scared, or maybe they're hibernating,” Thranduil told him gently as he continued walking. Tilda had approached as well and was holding Bard's hand, listening to what Thranduil said with wide and concerned eyes.

“Or maybe they left, to live in a better place,” Bard added.

Thranduil sent Bard a grateful look; he didn't want to make Legolas believe he would find dragons here when there were none. This way his son could still believe, but be less disappointed to not find such creatures in those woods.

Legolas took on a thoughtful expression, his hand still gripping his father's sleeve. Then he shrugged, and smiled brightly.

“Like we did!” he beamed, looking rather proud of his comparison and hopping on his feet.

“Yes,” Thranduil said, and he had to refrain from looking at Bard again. “Like we did.”

Ahead, Bain and Sigrid had stopped to sit on a trunk, in what seemed to be a clearing covered in snow; they’d had two weeks without it, but it had returned a few days previously, much to the children's gladness. It was already beginning to melt, though, for spring wasn't so far away. Thranduil could feel it in the air, and he was thankful for it.

Tilda let go of Bard's hand to take Legolas', exclaiming that they had to build a snowman with Sigrid and Bain, and left the two adults alone. They stood at the border of the small clearing, watching the children fondly.

Thranduil took his hat off to run a hand through his hair, his eyes not leaving Legolas gathering snow, until Bard spoke up.

“Can I try it on?” Bard asked casually, eyeing the hat, and Thranduil raised an eyebrow at him.

“Don't you have one?” It hit Thranduil then that he had never seen Bard wearing a hat before, and so he didn’t wait for Bard’s answer before he handed him his own.

“I always thought it wouldn't fit me,” Bard said as he inspected the hat, turning it in his hands. “Everyone's wearing those anyway.”

“Are you telling me I'm like everyone?” Thranduil teased, though he truly hoped Bard didn't think so. He didn’t mind what people thought of him, but he didn’t want to look ordinary to Bard’s eyes.

“Nah, have you seen your hair?” Bard laughed. “No one wears it that long. At least not anyone of your status.”

Thranduil was aware of how uncommon the way he kept his hair was, but he wouldn't change it for the world; he had always loved it, and so had his wife. He hadn’t had much of a choice during the war, and letting it grow again had been an incredible feeling of getting back to who he once was.

Thranduil didn't have to ask why Bard's wasn't short either; he could guess.

So he just nodded and tried a smile, which turned genuine as Bard put the hat on; the sight wasn't an unpleasant one.

“What do I look like?” Bard asked, taking on a serious expression, though curiosity was sparkling in the hazel of his eyes. Thranduil got lost in them a little, but he quickly recovered and straightened, his thumbs playing with the borders of his pockets. He cursed himself mentally when Bard noticed and shot him a grin.

“I—”

“Woah, da, you look great!”

It was Bain who had spoken up from the center of the clearing, stopping in the middle of gathering snow. It made the younger children turn to them, and if Legolas didn't seem much impressed, Sigrid and Tilda clapped their hands in enthusiasm, apparently appreciating the change.

Bard just made a small bow of his head before he looked at Thranduil again.

“That's what I was going to say.” Thranduil truly meant it; it fit Bard perfectly, since it had always been slightly too big for his own head, and he would be lying to himself if he didn't admit he really liked seeing Bard wearing his hat so well.

“Thank you.” Bard took the hat off and let his fingers linger on his surface. He seemed to like it, Thranduil thought, and that was why he shook his head when Bard handed it back to him.

“Keep it.”

Bard stared, light confusion painting his face. His eyes widened when he seemed to realize Thranduil was being serious.

“No, I couldn't possib—”

“I have another one,” Thranduil cut him off. “Keep it.”

Bard looked down to the hat, as if he didn't know what to say. But Bard wasn't shy; he had to be thinking about something else. Thranduil glanced at the busy children building their snowman, before he gently took the hat from Bard's hand and put it on his friend's head.

Bard met his eyes then, and Thranduil could read his thanks in his gaze. It was enough, and it was genuine. Thranduil wouldn't ask for anything more.

“Shall we sit?” Thranduil asked, gesturing to the trunk.

Bard nodded and followed him. The way he made sure the hat was correctly placed on his head didn't escape Thranduil's attention, getting a smirk out of him.

They sat and watched the children, but it wasn't long before their silence was broken.

“Why would you give it to me?”

Thranduil blinked, then straightened his coat around his shoulders.

“You like it, it fits you, and you're my friend,” Thranduil said. “Isn't it enough?”

Bard hesitated, but in the end he slowly nodded.

“Aye, I suppose,” Bard replied, his gaze fixed on Bain who was helping Tilda rolling a ball of snow. “I just wish I had something to give you in return.”

“It doesn't work that way,” Thranduil pointed out.

“I know.” Bard shrugged, and smirked as he turned to him. “Doesn't mean I won't find something, though.”

Thranduil had to refrain from rolling his eyes.

“Trust me, the cat's enough.”

Bard laughed then, nudging at Thranduil.

“Aye, of course the terrible cat,” Bard said. “That's not what I heard.”

Thranduil stared, raising a skeptical eyebrow.

“And what have you heard, exactly?” he asked.

“Legolas!” Bard called, and the boy turned to look at him curiously. “Come here, please.”

Legolas didn't have to be asked twice; he scampered to the two men, followed by the other children who, Thranduil guessed, were as curious as he was. Legolas stopped before them, swaying on his feet.

“Tell me again what you said about your ada and Mr. Whiskerson?” Bard said before he could ask.

Legolas' face lit up, and that was the moment Thranduil knew he was in trouble. If Bard's grin and Bain's chuckle was anything to go by, Legolas had seen something he wasn't supposed to.

“Ada loves to give Mr. Whiskerson food under the table, but he scolds me when I do!” Legolas sent Thranduil what he supposed was an angry look, but it held no bitterness, and Legolas looked more adorable than anything else. “I heard ada sing-songing to him, and he coos when he pets him.”

Bard slowly turned to look at Thranduil, tilting his head slightly to the side, apparently rather (very) amused by the situation. Thranduil held his gaze, tried to not smile. He couldn’t deny it all in front of his son, but he wasn’t that ashamed anyway. He really liked that cat. 

“I hate you,” he said, rolling his eyes in mock exasperation.

“No you don't!” It wasn't Bard who had spoken up, but Legolas. “You said—”

“I was joking, Legolas,” Thranduil cut him off, avoiding the curious eyes Bard was laying on him, and ignoring the chuckle of Sigrid and Tilda. “Of course I like Bard.”

“Uh-uh,” Bain hummed, ruffling Legolas' hair who let out an offended cry, but started laughing nonetheless.

Thranduil glared at Bain, and Bard stood up after an half smile in his direction, as if he had taken the hint that this wasn’t a conversation Thranduil wanted to have today. He feared Bard believed his son’s attitude was making Thranduil uncomfortable, but maybe it was for the better. 

“So, kids, are you going to introduce me to your new friend?” Bard asked, gesturing to the soon-to-be-finished snowman.

Thranduil watched as presentations were made, his thoughts going from the children to what had been said. Legolas had overheard him talking to Mr. Whiskerson a few nights ago; nothing too clear, but enough that could light rumours or confirm feelings Thranduil didn't know what to call yet. Or he did, but—no, those thoughts were better left untouched. After all, if one could not name something, how could it come to life?

But though he tried his best to keep things between Bard and himself as they were—safe and controlled—such a thing proved itself difficult, and Mr. Whiskerson happened to be quite a good listener; it wasn't rare for Thranduil to let all his thoughts out by talking to him.

Thranduil had told his son not to say a word to anyone; but Legolas was still just a child, and he trusted Bard. It was normal for him to believe it was safe. Thranduil could blame no one but himself, but hopefully nothing had been said that couldn’t be forgotten.

Thranduil concentrated on Legolas in order to change his mind, taking comfort in how happy his son looked. They all looked happy, and such a sight proved itself comforting indeed. Everything was when it came to Bard, and Thranduil found himself bathing in the soft warmth spreading inside him. That was, until he composed himself before he could fall too deep.

“Come on, we should go back,” Thranduil said after a moment, when he noticed Sigrid and Legolas yawning, taking it as the sign it was really time to leave. He stood as well, stretching his arms then adjusting Legolas’ coat around his shoulders. “I'll make tea and hot chocolate.”

It didn't take more than that for the children to run back to the house, throwing snowballs at each other under Bain and Bard's surveillance. How neither of them, nor Thranduil, managed to get hit by any, he didn’t know. Perhaps they feared they would have to say goodbye to the hot drinks waiting for them.

They walked side by side with the kids ahead, just the way they had come. In companionable silence, until Bard's voice rose and broke it carefully.

“Thran?” he spoke quietly, as if he was unsure of what he meant to say.

“Yes?”

From the corner of his eye Thranduil saw Bard reach out, put a hand on his shoulder. “Can you see them?”

Thranduil was met with an honest smile when he finally looked away from the melting snow. He looked around, but saw nothing.

“See what?”

Disappointment showed on Bard's face, but he just shook his head, and sighed.

“It's nothing.” Bard took his hand away, and shrugged at Thranduil's frown. The house was in sight, and the children were already going inside, seeking its warmer atmosphere. “I'll tell you later.”

He put his hands in his pockets and kept on walking, his gaze fixed to the ground. But Thranduil had stopped, his eyes widening as he finally saw them; light colours on trunks and firs, so close to grey he had not noticed them until then. They were spreading again, like all those years ago. Thranduil blinked once, twice, but there they stayed. The look Bard gave him as he stopped as well quickly took the warmth of the grin that appeared on his face.

“Ah, so you can see them?”

Thranduil just nodded, overwhelmed by the pleasant feeling this progress brought him, rushing through his body. 

As Thranduil caught up with Bard and let his eyes, despite himself, get lost in Bard's, he thought for a second that Bard was going to lean up and kiss him; but he did nothing of the kind. Instead, he broke the contact, gestured to the house, and didn't say another word.

As they walked the few meters separating them from his home, Thranduil couldn’t take his gaze away from the soft colours all around him. They were still new, too light to be called beautiful, to be considered a big change from what they were before. It didn’t stop Thranduil from being in awe, for he knew they would grow in intensity over time, until completion. And then, only then would he and Bard start to see each other in colours as well.

A strange phenomenon, it was. There was no explanation, as to why it happened, why this order of apparition, even how it was all possible. Maybe one day they would know, but though Thranduil was curious about it, it didn’t matter much to him. What mattered was what he shared, and with whom he did. 

Bard seemed taken by the small change as well; Thranduil couldn’t fully read him, but he felt his joy. The same that was taking place inside him, for it wasn’t a trick, it was all really happening and they were accepting it, sharing it; there really was this new, different bond between them. It was growing against all odds, and it gave Thranduil hope as much as it frightened him.

But as he opened the door for Bard and returned his small smile, he was reminded why that fear was a good one, one he could take strength from. It was scary because it was something unique, that they were given the chance to live again, and there were risks because of who they were. But even so, Thranduil couldn’t think of anyone other than Bard that he would like to share such a thing with.

And so he put the fear aside, and let this birth of new colours be another reason for him to be happy. However, he found it didn’t matter much; he was excited and he would be lying if he said he wasn’t, but what he knew more than anything, was that he would feel just as much joy if there weren’t going to be colours again in his world.

He didn’t care about them. He cared about Legolas. He cared about Bard and his family.

Thranduil shook his head; he was letting his thoughts take too much space again, which did nothing but make his mind feel unpleasantly heavy.

Inside, tea and hot chocolate were made, then drunk on the couch and seats by the fire.

Mr. Whiskerson soon found his place and fell asleep on Thranduil's lap, purring loudly enough to be heard over the calm discussion he was having with Bard and Bain, while the younger children played in Legolas' room.

Even though Thranduil loved it, it was in those moments when he should just enjoy and forget about troubles and worries that he couldn't help but think there was something wrong about this; there was something wrong in the way they treated each other. He wasn't sure his control wouldn't be faltering, should they go on like this, should they keep on sharing so much more than colours. But Thranduil didn't want it to stop, didn't want to put barriers between them, put restrictions were there was no need of any. 

He could manage, and as long as he did, he couldn't bring himself to put even a little more distance between them.

They were safe enough as they were, but Thranduil wasn’t able to get rid of his worry; what they had was worth too much already, and he wasn't sure about how he would feel if all that were taken away from him.

It was something he wondered, then; whether Bard worried just as much. Rumours were surmountable—if they ever were the target of any—for there was nothing to prove if there was nothing to hide; their situation was rather safe now, because people couldn’t believe two widowers could share more than friendship. But would they were to know about the bond, it would all turn into something dangerous, and that status protecting them now would only make it worse. Thranduil was painfully aware of that. Which was why no one else could know; from there, relatively harmless rumours would turn into truth to people’s eyes, and there was no escape from that.

But Bard and his children were gone before supper, and it was a talk they would need to have at a later time.

It was a few days later that Thranduil had tea with Bard for their weekly meeting. In the morning, they had dropped their children at school together, and then walked around town. They had shared pleasant conversation like they always did, and ended up having lunch at Arathorn's pub.

Though things didn't seem any different than usual, Thranduil felt there was something burning at the tip of Bard's tongue; he often opened his mouth to speak up, but then changed his mind, as if he wasn't sure how to bring up whatever subject was occupying his thoughts.

Thranduil wouldn't push him, though; Bard didn't seem bothered, nor worried, and so Thranduil didn't see any reason to grow impatient at Bard's hesitation. He knew very well how some things were not easy to talk about, however simple they might appear to be.

As Bard prepared the tea, Thranduil inspected Bard's living room with more attention; he looked at the pictures on the walls, many making him smile despite himself, picked up books and put aside wooden toys. 

He sat on the couch, only to get up again to rearrange it; surely Bard had fallen asleep there the night before, which wouldn't be a surprise in any way.

Something caught his eye then, between the parts of the couch. Thranduil frowned as he bent down to look at it more closely; he reached out, and got a simple silver chain with a photo locket pendant out. 

He didn't open it; Bard might not want to share with him the memories such an object held.

Thranduil's frown deepened though, as he turned the pendant in his fingers; he had seen it before, when Bard had spent the night at his house, but never had he gotten the chance to see it up close. There was something familiar about it; its design and the rather unique patterns on its surface somehow weren't new to him, but he couldn't quite put his finger on where he had seen it before.

Thranduil cleared his thoughts, declaring to himself it didn’t matter, and entered the kitchen where Bard had just finished preparing the tea.

“I found this,” Thranduil said, holding up the necklace. “In the couch.”

Bard turned to him, and as he took in what Thranduil was showing him, his gaze lit up fast and a wide smile lightened up his face.

“Oh, thank you.” Bard sighed in relief. “I thought I had lost it somewhere.”

He reached for the chain, but Thranduil lowered his hand. He didn’t say anything about how if Bard had looked more closely, he would have found it and avoided useless worry. 

“Do you want me to help you put it on?” he asked casually.

“Ah, yes,” was Bard's answer, before he turned around. “Thank you.”

Thranduil nodded and gently moved Bard's hair away so he could put the chain in place easily. The tip of his fingers grazed the skin of Bard's neck; he shivered, and Thranduil did as well, though he wouldn’t admit it.

Bard was turning the pendant between his fingers, laying a fond, melancholic gaze on it, when Thranduil faced him again.

“It never left me, during the war,” he said, and Thranduil understood; such simple things were often an anchor back then. “It barely does, even now.”

The smile Thranduil offered Bard was small, but it was a genuine one; it spoke of understanding and grief. He rubbed at the wedding ring on his finger, just as the picture of his wife and son he kept in his wallet seemed to weigh more than it did.

Thranduil's heart clenched a little, but he didn't let memories overflood him; instead, he smiled to himself upon noticing the way Bard was absently caressing the surface of the pocket watch Thranduil had offered him for Christmas. A beautiful one, it was; decorated with patterns of branches and leaves that had reminded him of the woods.

They were silent as Bard poured the tea, but his eyes were kind when he handed Thranduil his cup.

“When are we going to tell the children?” Bard abruptly asked as he sat on one of the kitchen's chairs. Certainly it had been on his mind for a while, and he was now taking the opportunity to discuss it.

Thranduil took place as well, and didn't think much before he gave his answer; he had wondered long enough, and was glad the subject was brought up again.

“I don't think we should,” Thranduil shook his head at Bard's frown. “I trust them, but they're children. We couldn't stop them from telling their friends what our families do together. How do you think Elrond knows?”

“We didn't instruct them not to. To people we're just fathers helping each other out,” Bard replied with a shrug. He didn't seem worried, and Thranduil didn't know if he should be annoyed, or take confidence from it. “Surely we can tell the kids more. Don't they deserve to know?”

“Of course they do.” Thranduil rolled his eyes at Bard, then smiled weakly. “But they're still children. They don't always think before they talk, and they might tell someone they trust enough. Those who won't keep their tongues, and we'll suddenly stop being 'just fathers helping each other out'.”

Bard sighed, sipped his tea. He stared at the cup between his hands, before he looked up.

“I just like to think our world isn't as bad as it is,” he said quietly, almost to himself. “It's not ready for people like us yet.”

Thranduil's eyes fell on Bard's hand, empty on the table. He wanted to reach out, hold it and offer comfort, for there was nothing else he had to give. But he changed his mind halfway through, and took his hand back to close it around his cup. Thranduil didn't dare to look at what Bard's face could show, and so he just stirred the tea. His feelings were too conflicted, too complicated, and he hated it. He hated being torn between what his head and what his heart told him. 

“We should at least tell Bain,” Bard said next, something wary in his voice that Thranduil decided to ignore.

“Oh, I think he already knows,” Thranduil said with a smirk, though he didn't look up. “But yes, I suppose. When the time is right, he should hear it from us.”

“And when would that be?”

“I do not know,” was all Thranduil found to say.

They finished their tea in silence, sometimes broken by a thought or another spoken out loud, Thranduil somehow even managing to make Bard laugh again, adding more wrinkles to the corners of his eyes; a sight that had quickly become, over the past weeks, one of Thranduil's favourites.

“Come on, let's go get the kids,” Bard announced as he stood and left the kitchen, going for his coat on the back of the couch.

“Are you trying to get rid of me?” Thranduil teased, but the gaze Bard laid on him was particularly soft.

“I would never,” he breathed, before he disappeared down the stairs without another look back.

Thranduil was quick to put on his own coat and follow him, his heart heavy, for he had felt how much Bard had meant his words; it added more layers to a truth he didn't feel ready to acknowledge yet. And so he put it once again in a corner of his mind, finding poor comfort in the lies he told himself, instead of the hopes he forbade himself to feed.

Downstairs, Bain's friend—Faramir, Thranduil thought he was called—was sitting at the reception and waved shyly at them. He was doing a good job, according to Bain, and even if he didn't mention it, Thranduil knew Bard was glad for his presence by his son's side.

They went outside, sharing simple conversation as they walked towards Saint Emily's school. Soon March would be upon them, and with it a warmer air, Thranduil hoped. He was eager to see life take back its rightful place, to see what his home's surroundings looked like covered in herbs and wildflowers. But more than anything, it would be kinder times for Bard, which Thranduil hoped to share with him.

They kept a respectable distance between them, aware they had to look like what they were; good friends helping each other out, as Bard had said. People were polite; they wished them a good afternoon as they passed by, but sometimes their gazes lingered. Thranduil didn't like it, for they looked either confused about the pair they made, or curious, respectful or even understanding upon noticing Bard's light limp, when they stared for too long until they crossed paths.

Bard however, didn't seem to pay much attention; he said hello when he was greeted, but kept his eyes either a little ahead on the ground, or on Thranduil. 

Reaching the school and seeing Elrond was there as well felt like a relief for Thranduil, and even though Bard didn’t show it, Thranduil was sure it was for him too. The two of them got along rather well, and had known each other for a long time before Thranduil arrived in town. 

Thranduil's hands were clasped behind his back, as they started their wait in front of the building. They hadn’t gone to Elrond, knowing he would be the one joining them. 

“Shouldn't you be working?” Thranduil asked Elrond, as he indeed appeared in front of them.

“No more appointments for the day,” Elrond merely replied, eyeing the two of them curiously. “I thought I'd give the children a surprise—but how are you two doing? You've spent the day together _again_ , haven't you?”

Thranduil raised an eyebrow at Elrond, wondering what he was trying to do, exactly; they had met in the late morning on their way to Arathorn's pub, and had a similar talk.

“Just as good as earlier, thank you,” Bard answered, sounding mildly annoyed and mimicking Thranduil's expression. “And aye, we did.”

It made Thranduil smirk, which might not have been the best reaction, for it only made Elrond hum knowingly. He stopped though, when he noticed Bard's hat.

“Thranduil, isn't that your hat?”

“Not anymore,” Bard merely said, a small smile on his lips, as he straightened it on his head.

“Will you stop this?” Thranduil said to Elrond, through gritted teeth. All he got in answer was a chuckle, and another knowing look.

Thranduil hated it, and he made sure it showed in the glare he sent his friend. 

“Would you look at that, they're opening the doors,” Elrond stated, gesturing vaguely to the school. “See you soon, gentlemen.”

He didn't let them time to answer before he walked closer to the gates. Thranduil huddled deeper into his coat, letting out a sigh; he was getting tired of his friend's attitude. His relationship with Bard was personal, but Elrond had barely stopped making such comments over the past weeks, leaving Thranduil rather confused. The first time they had talked about it, Elrond had agreed he should be careful, but here he was, teasing him about it all and almost making a game out of it.

“What was that?” Bard asked, his eyes following Elrond as he went.

“Elrond being his teenager self,” Thranduil muttered.

“I don’t mind that much,” Bard laughed quietly. “But maybe you shouldn't have told him.”

Before Thranduil could answer, children's enthusiastic cries were heard; both fathers turned to see Sigrid, Tilda and Legolas running towards them, crashing into their legs.

“Hello you all,” Bard said, smiling brightly as he took his girls' school bags from their hands.

“How was school?” Thranduil asked as he did the same with Legolas', who couldn't stop hopping in excitement.

“There's a new boy in our class!” Legolas said enthusiastically. “His name's Gimli, and we're already friends.”

Legolas seemed particularly proud of that, as if exactly the same things hadn't happened with Bard's children. Thranduil smiled, patting his son's hair as he silently agreed with Bard that they should get out of the small crowd of parents and children, and leave.

“We also learned about bees and bubblebees!” Tilda beamed proudly, and Legolas nodded vigorously.

Bard laughed as he ruffled her hair affectionately, leading the way back to the shelter.

“Bumblebees, darling.”

“They look so soft!” she exclaimed. “Da, do you like bubblebees?”

Bard rolled his eyes fondly, giving Thranduil an amused look that he sent back.

“Aye, I like bubblebees.”

His answer seemed to please Tilda, just as much as Legolas. They let go of their respective father’s hand and ran together down the sidewalk (though they didn’t go too far ahead, Bard’s orders), leaving Sigrid between Bard and Thranduil. 

“And what have you done today, Sigrid?” Bard asked. 

She peered up at him and put on a concentrated expression, before she clapped her hands and hopped on her feet, very much like Legolas had earlier, and started telling them about all she had learned. 

When they reached the shelter, they stayed just a while longer; Legolas wanted to see the cats, and Thranduil didn’t see any reason to say no. It wasn’t as if he minded Bard’s company, and they still had much to say. 

“The walls are light blue,” Thranduil whispered to Bard’s ear once Faramir had gone back home. “And Mr. Whiskerson is beige and white, isn’t he?”

“Yes,” Bard replied, laughing lightly. “Yes, he is.” 

It was incredible, how such a simple thing could mean so much; it wasn’t the case, but in a way Thranduil felt as if those colours were theirs, and theirs alone. 

Eventually, it was time to leave. Bard looked sad to have to let them go, even though Thranduil was sure they would see each other again soon. He couldn’t help but notice though, the way Bard’s hand lingered on his shoulder when he squeezed it gently in goodbye. 

Thranduil took Legolas’ hand and they left, Thranduil casting a last look behind only to see Bard reach for his pocket and sigh as he turned to get back in. 

Legolas seemed barely tired as they walked down the path to their home; he couldn’t stop talking about his friends and the new boy, but what he was most excited about was to get back to Mr. Whiskeron. Thranduil liked to think adopting that cat had been one of his best decisions, for he had only brought good things upon them, and that from the very beginning. 

Without Mr. Whiskerson, they might not be where they were now, worried by the world they lived in, but happy and sharing wonderful things. 

They got rid of their coats and hats and scarves as soon as they entered the hall, glad to be welcomed by the warmth of their home. Legolas didn’t have to be asked twice before he went upstairs to get a book and sit on the couch by the fireplace, which Thranduil lit later in the evening. 

They sat on the couch together, Mr. Whiskerson soon joining them and settling himself on Legolas’ lap, as was his habit. Then, Thranduil began to read, and made his son’s eyes sparkle.

Thranduil had just finished reading the story Legolas had picked, when the phone rang. He sighed and got up, muttering to no one in particular how he’d like such evenings to be spent without disturbance.

He sighed, and picked up the phone.

“Mirkwood 3-2941.”

“Thranduil, it's Elrond.” Thranduil was going to ask what was the matter again, but there was something off about his friend's tone that made him pause. “Listen—”

“What’s happening? Are you alright?”

“I'm fine, I'm fine,” Elrond reassured him, though not fast enough for his taste.

“What is it then?” Thranduil pressed him; he didn't like the feeling of uneasiness taking place in his chest, the worry growing bolder in his gut. He thought he was going to get sick, and that wasn’t a reassuring feeling at all.

“I got a call from Bilbo, since he doesn't have your number,” Elrond said carefully. “He's at the hospital.”

Thranduil's blood ran cold in his veins. Why would Bilbo be—?

“It's Bard.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> You're absolutely allowed to yell at me for this very cliché cliffhanger that I absolutely do not regret.  
> But death isn't near for Bard (it really, really isn't), if it can reassure you. :) I just needed what happened to him for 'plot' reasons. Answers next chapter!
> 
> Hopefully Thranduil will stop overthinking and being in denial soon. Kind of. Wait and see. 
> 
> Let me know your thoughts? You'll make my day! 
> 
> Huge thanks to [Iza](http://archiveofourown.org/users/Piyo13/) for editing this chapter! :D


	10. Feelings

“What?” Thranduil's voice quivered. The hand that wasn't holding the phone was shaking, the knuckles on his other hand turning white as he gripped the phone. He tried to keep a blank face; Legolas was watching him curiously from the couch, holding Mr. Whiskerson in his arms in a tight grip, as if he felt something was wrong.

“Bard's in hospital,” Elrond repeated, his tone sounding far too calm for Thranduil's tastes, given the news. “I don't know what happened, but I'm sure he's fine, so don't worry too much.”

“Of course. You're telling me my friend is in hospital, and I'm supposed to believe he's 'fine', and stay as calm as you!” Thranduil almost spat through gritted teeth. He hated how his own choice of words sounded fake in his mouth. He wanted Elrond to be more precise, but he couldn't blame him, if he didn't know.

“I can have Legolas over for the night,” Elrond offered in what Thranduil knew was Elrond's best comforting voice, ignoring his temper. “You should go see him.”

Thranduil took a deep breath and tried to calm down; letting his emotions get the best of him was the worst thing he could do right now, and if Bard was indeed in hospital, he had to go and see him, not lose time over the phone.

“Alright,” he said, pinching the bridge of his nose. “I'll be right there.”

Elrond hung up without another word. Thranduil sighed, and ran his shaking hands across his face. He felt as if all the world's worries were suddenly weighing on his shoulders, just as there was an unpleasant, painful pressure in his chest, threatening to suffocate him.

“Ada?” Legolas peered up at him, tugging at his sleeve like he always did. Thranduil hadn't even noticed him getting up. “What's happening?”

Thranduil's gaze turned instantly softer, and he tried his best to hide how bad and nervous he felt as he crouched before Legolas, taking his son’s hands into his own.

“Bard got himself into trouble,” Thranduil lied. “I have to go and help him with Bilbo—you remember, the baker?—so you're going to sleep at Elrond's tonight. Is that alright?”

Legolas inspected him for what felt like hours, until he slowly nodded.

“Come on, go get your pajamas,” Thranduil instructed him, refraining from sounding hurried, even though he wished to leave as soon as possible.

As he waited for his son by the door, coat, hat and scarf already on, Thranduil tried to not let his worry eat him from within. A hundred of what-if's were swirling inside his head, and he found difficult to not grow impatient. He had to see Bard, and fast. He had to make sure for himself that Bard would be alright.

What on Earth could even have happened? He had left him only two hours ago, and what about his children? Did they know? Was Bard really okay? He had to be. He had to be, or else—

A shiver ran down Thranduil's spine as memories flooded his mind and made his hands shake again. It was happening all over again. He had gotten a phonecall, been informed his wife had been admitted at the hospital; she had fainted at the market. And then everything had gone downhill from there. Thranduil had always thought he was a good doctor, but he hadn't seen it coming. He had been told it wasn't his fault, that he couldn't have known, but that had never stopped him from blaming himself.

He couldn't help but fear history was repeating itself with Bard, in a way or another. It crushed him, and he had to open the door to breathe the fresh air of the evening. It washed over him like a cold shower.

It was a well-known fact, that one tended to realize what they'd been trying to ignore or deny, once what mattered to them was taken away, or the truth of such a potential reality was presented before their eyes.

The truth was hitting Thranduil hard, getting rid of his barriers and imposing itself on him without him being able to do anything to stop it.

He couldn't lose Bard.

He couldn't lose Bard, because he loved him.

It had grown fast, way too fast for his tastes, and against what his head told him; but he had fallen nonetheless, because what could one do, when one’s heart is attracted to another in such a quiet and discreet, yet deep and powerful way?

Thranduil had been lying to himself, over and over again. He couldn’t continue the facade. He couldn’t continue lying, couldn’t continue ignoring the signs from Bard. He had no control over what he was feeling, just a mask he had put over his heart and showed to everyone who wanted to see it, including himself.

He hated that about Bard; how he managed to make Thranduil realize he didn't have as much control over everything as he’d once thought he had. Thranduil had always known what to do with his life, with his time and with his feelings, but Bard? Bard had turned all those beliefs upside down and made his place. He was making Thranduil feel things he had forgotten all about, a long time ago. Things he had never thought he would ever feel again. 

Thranduil had fallen fast for Bard, let him inside, and while those words had always been at the front of his mind, he had never dared to even think them, in fear there would be no going back from there. That, at least, was true; but there had been no going back for a while already.

Now, as another kind of fear entirely occupied his thoughts, he knew—and maybe didn’t completely accept, but at least realized: life was too precious and fragile and fast-spent to be wasted with lies and denial. But, Thranduil couldn't help but think, at what cost? 

“Ada?” Thranduil snapped back to reality, his heart beating fast against his chest and thankful there were no tears wetting his cheeks; maybe he still had some control, in the end. Legolas had stopped at the bottom of the stairs, his bag by his side and his reindeer plushie in his arms.

Thranduil went to him and helped him put his coat on, then his bag on his back; only then did he take Legolas' hand and led him outside. Once the door was closed behind them, Thranduil picked Legolas up and started the walk to the town, towards Elrond's house.

It felt much longer than it really was, particularly since Legolas didn't seem in a talking mood; he just looked around, hugging both his father's neck and his plushie. Thranduil had no doubt he felt something bad was happening, and he was thankful Legolas didn't ask any questions; such worries were not a child's burden.

Thranduil was taking deep breaths, trying to keep his pace a moderate one. Never before had he more regretted not having his own car. When he arrived at Elrond's house, his impatience could be heard in the way he knocked on the door, pressed and hurried.

It was Elrond who opened, and he immediately shot Thranduil an apologetic look.

“Hello, Legolas,” he said, and the boy turned to him.

“Hi, Elrond,” Legolas replied, rubbing at his eye and yawning.

Thranduil put him down, crouched to kiss his forehead.

“Come on, go in, Celebrian is going to put you to bed. I'll see you tomorrow, alright?”

Legolas nodded and kissed his father's cheek, before he disappeared behind Elrond after a last wave of his hand in Thranduil's direction. Thranduil sighed as he straightened; he hoped Legolas would find sleep easily, and not be worried by his father's unusual behavior.

He met Elrond's eyes then; he would go straight to the point, and leave as fast as possible.

“Do you really not know what happened?”

Elrond shook his head, and now that Thranduil could see him, he regretted the way he had spoken to his friend on the phone; he did seem worried, though less than Thranduil was.

“I do not,” he said. “Bilbo just told me to inform you.”

Thranduil slowly nodded, went to turn away, but Elrond's hand on his shoulder stopped him. He turned back to face him, raising an eyebrow.

“He didn't seem worried, just in a hurry to get back inside,” Elrond told him. “Surely Bard is out of danger, I see no other reason he wouldn't have explained.”

It did little to ease Thranduil's mind, but it was better than nothing, or worst: bad news. But Elrond's words made sense, and it was a relief to cross the possibility of Bard _dying_ on the list of things he had to worry about. The thought itself was unbearable.

“I'll see you tomorrow, Elrond,” Thranduil said. “Thank you, for Legolas.”

And to that he walked away without a second glance, hoping a cab would pass by; it didn't, which didn’t improve Thranduil's mood in any way. These things always had to happen when he was in a hurry.

It was cold tonight and the icy wind bit at his skin; it made the journey to the hospital feel all the longer. Thranduil felt as if his heart was going to burst out of his chest, but not in the way one in love might hope for.

Thranduil stopped before the doors to take a deep breath; it had been long since he had last entered a hospital for unprofessional reasons, and it held no memories he wished to bring back.

As soon as he entered, Bilbo appeared in view, standing up from a chair and going straight towards him. He wore, Thranduil guessed, brown pants, a shirt, a waistcoat and a velvet jacket. His hair was messy, and Thranduil could see how he had worried as well; but Bilbo’s features were less tensed, and he took it as a good sign.

“Good eve—”

“How is he?” Thranduil cut him off, skipping the formalities and gesturing to Bilbo to show him the way. Bilbo huffed in protest, but he complied nonetheless.

“He's fine,” Bilbo said as he led Thranduil through white corridors. “As far as getting his head bashed against a wall goes.”

Thranduil's stomach flipped unpleasantly at the violence of such an action, directed at his friend in particular; it made anger burn inside him, though he kept it at bay. There was nothing he could do about it now, and Bard didn't need him to concentrate on things he had no control of.

“What happened?” was his next question, his voice calm and still.

“Well, it might be my fault—” Bilbo answered uneasily. Thranduil turned to him then, trying not to jump to any bad conclusions and making the both of them stop. 

“How come?”

Bilbo swayed on his feet, seeming to have some difficulties holding the heaviness of Thranduil's gaze.

“He came to help finally fix Thorin's bell,” Bilbo explained. “But afterwards, when he walked me home—Thorin had to close his shop— we crossed path with this guy and—”

Bilbo took a deep breath, looked around him as if to check no one was listening. Thranduil didn't like the bad feeling that was building up in his chest, even though he felt reassured that Bilbo felt guilty for nothing; if Thranduil guessed correctly, it wasn't Bilbo's fault in any way.

“He accused me of, you know—unlike you, we've not been as careful as we should have,” Bilbo continued as he started walking again, leading Thranduil to a staircase. “I guess he thought he could get to me without Thorin around, but I don't think he expected Bard to stand up for me and assure him he was getting it all wrong. I have never seen anyone with such a bad temper. Bard was mad too, but he stayed calm. It didn't stop the other guy from getting aggressive, though, as soon as we turned to leave. And that’s when he bashed Bard’s head against a wall.”

 _Coward._ How had he dared to attack Bard from behind? 

Bilbo sighed, and stopped before a door. Thranduil supposed it was Bard's, but he didn't hurry to go in, despite his whole being telling him to do so; he understood that listening to what Bilbo had to say was important enough to wait.

“Has he been caught?” Thranduil asked coldly. All this made his blood boil with anger. 

“No, he flew as soon as he saw the blood.” Bilbo shook his head. “But Bard doesn't want to find him; he fears it would only bring more attention on Thorin and me.”

As much as he hated the idea of letting the man who had put Bard in hospital live without consequences, Thranduil understood and respected Bard's choice. He just hoped the stranger wouldn't do such a thing again in the future, or worse, cross their own paths. 

“Don't blame yourself, Bilbo,” Thranduil merely said, and put his hand on the handle. He didn't open the door, though, and turned back to the baker. “Why me—why did you call _me_?”

The look Bilbo gave him told enough, but he spoke anyway.

“Do I really have to answer that question?” Bilbo said. “I think you know, Thranduil.”

Thranduil didn't reply; indeed, he did know.

“Also, he asked for you as soon as he woke up,” Bilbo added, grinning. Thranduil had to turn his head to hide the small smile that instantly formed on his lips; he also felt bad for it, given the circumstances, though he knew it was what Bard would want him to do.

“I'll leave you now. I just wanted to explain everything before I left,” Bilbo said. “I'll be back tomorrow morning with Thorin.”

To that, he left, with a last apologetic look thrown behind him, which Thranduil waved off with a dismissive flick of his hand.

Finally, Thranduil opened the door; he felt much better than before, but the nervousness he had concealed inside him was still acting hard on him. He hadn't felt such a worry in a long time, and with all the realizations that had come with it, Thranduil felt more than a little destabilized. He craved as much as he feared seeing Bard.

As he entered and saw Bard's head shoot up, only for his face to break into a sheepish smile, all regrets faded from Thranduil's mind and he felt it again; that soft warmth spreading in his chest. But this time, it felt as if it would never leave. Deep inside, he was actually glad he could now put words on it and not try to deny them.

Bard looked tired, and absolutely awful. He had stitches from the base of his hair to his cheekbone and going through his eyebrow, as well as a black eye of the kind Thranduil hadn't seen in years. Though he smiled at Thranduil, he also seemed rather annoyed to be there, in that white, cold room. There was an uneasiness in his movements, however small. Thranduil guessed he didn't like hospitals much, but he understood; he didn't either.

Against a bedside table was his prosthesis, and on the table were Bard's few belongings: his wallet, and the pocket watch Thranduil had offered him.

“You look like someone who's been way more worried than he should have been,” Bard teased as he straightened against his large pillow, but his eyes were particularly soft; Thranduil couldn't help but take some comfort from them.

“You look like someone whose head has been smashed against a wall,” Thranduil teased back, but he didn't smile; there was nothing about this situation to smile at. His joke didn't even feel right. He just thought it was what Bard would want to hear from him, and indeed, Bard instantly offered him a small smile.

“It was a door frame, thank you. I'm not fragile enough to break like some egg thrown against a wall.”

Bard laughed quietly then, getting a chuckle out of Thranduil, who couldn't believe Bard still managed such thing while sitting in a hospital bed.

“How are you feeling?” Thranduil asked then, concern tainting his voice.

“I've been better,” Bard said with a shrug. “But I've been much worse too. It doesn't hurt that much.”

“How are you feeling?” Thranduil asked again as he took off his coat, hat, and scarf and hung them next to Bard’s. He then got closer to the bed, just as Bard rolled his eyes.

“I'm fine,” Bard replied honestly. At least Thranduil hoped he was being honest. “I was more of a brawler than I care to admit, before I met my wife. These aren’t my first stitches.”

Thranduil wondered for which reasons Bard got into fights in the past, but he didn't ask; he guessed they probably weren't much different from his current ones.

Bard pointed to the chair by the side of the bed, and Thranduil sat on it. He eyed Bard's hand, slightly shaking as it sometimes did, and felt the need to reach out and hold it, seek its warmth. But he couldn't bring himself to; maybe it wouldn't be welcomed, maybe it would be too much already.

Even so, Thranduil was scared. He was scared that he and Bard would acknowledge those feelings he feared they shared, make that step forward; he didn't know what he would do then, to keep their families safe. Though all the same, there was also nothing he wished more.

But then Bard turned his hand, laying its back on the bed, and made an inviting move of his fingers. Thranduil didn't think as he reached out and closed his fingers on Bard's; when he looked up, he found wide hazel eyes staring at him, as if he hadn't expected Thranduil to do it. A lump quickly formed in Thranduil's throat; maybe it hadn't even been an invitation.

He meant to withdraw, thinking it a mistake, but then Bard's fingers closed on his. They didn't say a word, but Thranduil's heart beat fast inside his chest; never had the contact of skin against skin lingered too much before. But here, neither of them seemed inclined to let go. Bard's thumb stroked his skin slowly, reassuringly, and progressively, the remains of tension in Thranduil's body faded away.

Bard might have been trying to joke earlier, but Thranduil had indeed been crushed under his worry. He felt relieved beyond measure, to see that Bard was alright, that he wasn't in any deathly danger, that he would come back to his home and his children and the way of life Thranduil wished to keep on sharing with him. That he wasn't pushing him away; and though he was aware that Bard's soft gestures and words were sometimes those of one who loves but keeps it to themselves—though Thranduil had never completely admitted it until now—he didn't want to make any assumptions.

Thranduil was well aware how under those thoughts lingered the hopes of a different kind of life, but in no way he could imagine those hopes fulfilled. What had happened was more proof of it. Why would his and Bard's experience be any different than Bilbo's and Thorin's? They were much more careful, that was true, but there were too many 'what-if's to burden his thoughts. Most importantly, they were fathers; it wouldn't play in their favor.

And anyway, didn't friends, too, hold hands in such a situation?

“Do your children know?” Thranduil asked, breaking the comfortable silence that had grown between them. Thranduil didn't like, however, how there was a slightly tensed edge to it, which he guessed came from him. 

Bard nodded, shot him an unsure smile.

“The kids left earlier with Thorin, he drove them home,” Bard told him. “Bain can take care of his sisters for the night.”

Bard paused to look disapprovingly at the hospital gown he was wearing.

“I could come home, too, but they want to—”

“Keep you for the night to make sure your head's fine. Those are just formalities,” Thranduil finished, using simple words. He knew, however, that it was safer for Bard to stay just a little while longer. “Doctor, remember.”

Bard rolled his eyes, slapped Thranduil's arm weakly, only for his hand to find his way back to Thranduil's. He didn't pay it any mind; he found he liked this contact, though he wouldn't admit it to anyone but himself, and wouldn't show it to anyone but Bard and their families.

In that instant he allowed himself to put his fears aside, to breathe and just enjoy that moment they shared, even just for a second before they would come back and haunt him; just a second to enjoy _how good_ it felt. It was sad, that he had needed such a situation to stop pretending he didn't want this, but a part of him was glad he had seen reason.

There was so much more that he wanted to do. To hold and to caress and to kiss. Those things he had never dared to imagine he would want to share with anyone; but here he was, craving them, feeling his chest and his fingers burn, without being able to do anything to satisfy that ever growing fire. It was too soon, too uncertain, too dangerous.

Thranduil couldn't take such a risk, for Bard’s sake, and for the children’s.

But neither could he keep on pretending, keep on walking in circles like a lion in a cage. He needed to hear it; the statement to the question part of him already knew the answer to. But he had to be sure, and they had to talk.

Enough beating around the bush.

“I like you,” Thranduil breathed, almost hoping Bard hadn't heard him. “I really like you.”

Bard looked down to him, his eyes slightly widening in surprise. He gaped for a second, before he closed his mouth again, just as his grip on Thranduil's hand grew tighter. He said nothing for a while, and just stared at their linked hands as the tug of a smile formed at the corner of his mouth.

“I like you, too,” Bard finally said, his voice barely a whisper.

Bard's words lifted a weight from Thranduil's shoulders; he wanted to smile, but he couldn't bring himself to, despite the feeling provoked inside him. He reached for Bard's chin, and Thranduil made Bard look at him.

“I'm sorry,” he said, staring straight into Bard's eyes.

Bard frowned; he winced at the pain it caused.

“What for?”

“Because we can't do this— _I_ can't do this.”

Bard searched Thranduil's eyes, as if he was looking for something to read in them; but there was not much to see, nothing more than hints of a bittersweet fondness, regrets and unspoken pain.

Thranduil hoped he wouldn't have to say it all aloud. He hoped Bard would understand where his worries lay. Thranduil guessed he did, for Bard's gaze darkened and he saw doubt tainting it. Somehow, Thranduil recognized it; he wasn't the only one, in the end, to have fed the same worries.

“I know, I know,” Bard said, sounding only half defeated. “But I believe we could.”

“Do you ever lose your optimism?”

Bard chuckled, but it lacked of heart. He turned Thranduil's hands in his and let his right hand's fingers linger on the pale skin, sending shivers through Thranduil's body.

“Why lose it when we do not know what tomorrow will hold for us?”

“What we have—it is fragile,” Thranduil said carefully, slowly shaking his head. “But what we _could_ have? It is even more so. It can be destroyed in a second.” He paused to meet Bard's gaze; never would he stop loving to see their colours. “I wish I could listen to my heart, but there's so much at stake.”

“I would take that risk for you,” Bard whispered, and it broke Thranduil's heart; he wanted to say the same, but Bard's hope wasn't one he shared yet.

“I'm sorry,” Thranduil merely said again, his eyes falling on their linked hands. Despite his words, he didn't let go; he hoped he would never have to. “I need to think.”

Thranduil didn't know why he said that; he had already thought enough. But here, sitting in this hospital room, after so many emotions in so little time, he felt as if his mind wasn't clear enough. He did know, however, that he could learn from Bard's positivity. But not tonight.

“No, I understand. I'm worried too,” Bard said softly. “Take your time; I'm not going anywhere.”

Finally, they shared a proper smile, though small. Thranduil felt better, to have talked of his concerns with Bard. It was as though a burden had been lifted from his shoulders, though its ghost still lingered there; a constant reminder that all wasn’t magically okay already.

The door opened then, and Thranduil quickly withdrew his hand from Bard's, leaning against the back of his chair and crossing his leg above the other.

A nurse and a doctor entered the room; they stopped and seemed confused when their eyes fell on Thranduil, but they quickly got themselves back together.

“Good evening, sir,” the nurse said, while the doctor only bowed his head politely and went to Bard. “Mr. Bowman.”

Thranduil only bowed his head as well in answer, as Bard reminded her there was no need to call him in such a formal way. They proceeded to check on Bard, under Thranduil's watchful eyes; they did their respective jobs well and carefully, before the doctor confirmed all seemed to be fine and that should it be the same in the morning, they would let Bard go before midday.

He left then, surely eager to go home, leaving the nurse to give Bard another blanket for the night.

“Sir, you need to leave now,” the nurse told Thranduil as she went for the door, but he held her gaze, his own cold and leaving no place for discussion.

“I'm his doctor,” he said flatly. It was a lie (well, sort of), but he didn't care; if he wanted to stay with Bard, he would.

“Thran, you should go home,” Bard tried, gently, but Thranduil didn't listen.

“I'll stay.”

The nurse scowled, but added nothing more. She left, muttering incoherent words under her breath. 

Thranduil had no particular reason to stay; surely Bard would be fine. He simply wanted to, and it was a decision he had made the second he had learned Bard had been admitted to the hospital. Thranduil didn't want to leave him alone here, and so he wouldn't. He knew how much he wouldn't want to share this place's room with silence and memories of pain and loss as his only company. No matter how much he would protest, just like Bard was doing.

“The chair is going to kill your back,” Bard insisted again.

“Let me have a pillow and I'll be fine,” Thranduil said. “One night is not that much.”

Bard sighed, and straightened himself a little more; Thranduil took one of the two pillows behind his friend's back, which forced him to lay down.

As Thranduil made himself as comfortable as possible, he watched as Bard stared at the ceiling and let out a quiet breath that seemed to be of relief.

Taking one himself, Thranduil reached for Bard's hand; no one would come back until the morning, and with his busy thoughts, Thranduil doubted he would be able to find much sleep anyway. Bard had closed his eyes, but he was still awake; there was the ghost of smile on his lips, before he spoke up.

“I'm glad you're here,” Bard said.

Thranduil didn't answer, but he gave Bard's hand a light squeeze. _I’m glad you still are_ , crossed his mind. Thranduil waited until Bard relaxed and drifted into sleep, before he allowed himself to tuck a lock of hair behind Bard's ear, and let his thumb caress Bard’s cheek.

Thranduil smiled then, but not any smile, no; he smiled the smile of one whose love is true and returned.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Progress, yay! I hope this was okay @.@
> 
> I know the way Bard got hurt might seem a bit weird or something, but these things happen. I kind of saw it happen once, it wasn't nice. (and the guy got himself hurt without anyone to push him violently) *coughs*
> 
> Check out [this drawing](http://sellleh.tumblr.com/post/132215580899/commission-for-breathingbarduil-its-bard-with) of Bard and Mr. Whiskerson by the amazing sellleh! :D
> 
> You've probably noticed I posted this chapter a few hours earlier than usual, but it was ready and I couldn't wait. The next one (and the one after that) _might_ take a little longer to be posted though (I promise I won't make you wait more than two weeks), since I'm participating to NaNoWriMo this year. I'm writing a Barduil story (nooo really?) featuring Merman!Bard, and you can follow my progress [here](http://nanowrimo.org/participants/bereniceofdale) if you want to. 
> 
> As usual, my beta [Iza](http://archiveofourown.org/users/Piyo13/) is awesome :D


	11. We'll Be Fine

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Bard's POV returns!

When Bard woke up the next morning, feeling rested, he immediately noticed that the hammering of blood against his skull wasn't the only thing that had disappeared; Thranduil wasn't in the chair anymore. He felt a strange panic make its way inside him as he took in how lonely he was in this place he hated above all others.

That was, until he noticed Thranduil's hat was still hanging next to Bard's on the hat rack, and the keys to his home had been left on the bedside table.

Bard took a deep breath before he slowly got himself back together, and smiled to himself; he guessed it was Thranduil's way to reassure him that he would come back.

Bard stretched his arms lazily, before he rubbed his eyes; only to withdraw with a wince of pain, as his left one was bruised. He raised his hand before his eyes as he remembered the events of last evening; he could almost feel the warmth of Thranduil's hand in his, the softness of his skin against his own.

Knowing Thranduil shared his feelings brought a new kind of warmth upon him; the last remains of his doubts had faded away, even though the more concerning matters still had to be taken into account. But for now, Bard couldn't shake off the good feeling building in his chest, because nothing was yet set in stone. Thranduil needed time to think, and Bard would give it to him. It didn't matter how long; days or weeks or months, he would be waiting.

Bard sat on the edge of his bed with a sigh, but he felt relieved; he didn't feel worse than he had last night, and he guessed he could safely hope he would be authorized to go home and spend the weekend with his children.

It pained him though, to think about what had happened again. It had been a very long time since he had last gotten into such a fight. He felt a bit angry, but also mostly sad at the unfairness of it all.

He eyed his prosthesis against the bedside table. Well, the other side of the bedside table. Bard rolled his eyes to no one in particular, wondering who was the idiot who had put it there. He stood, though, using the table for support with one hand, and caught the prosthesis with the other; then he sat back on the bed and put it on, in order to go to the restroom.

His face broke into a smile as soon as he returned. Thranduil was back, sitting on the chair with breakfast; apples and pastries.

“I told the room service not to bring you a tray,” Thranduil greeted, picking an apple and taking a bite. “They'll bring tea, though.”

“Thank you,” Bard said as he went around the bed to sit in front of Thranduil. He picked a pastry, and had to retain a little noise of contentment as he took his first bite as well. “But you didn't have to—that's from Bilbo's, right?”

Thranduil waved his hand with a small smile.

“Yes, but Thorin's sister is taking care of the bakery today,” he explained. “Bilbo will come around with him in an hour or two.”

Thranduil winced, making Bard chuckle; Thranduil didn't go along very well with Thorin, and it didn't surprise him to see Thranduil so little inclined to be stuck with Bilbo's companion in a hospital room. But as long as they were respectful towards each other, Bard was sure it would all be fine.

As Thranduil had said, a nurse entered the room with tea on a tray, announcing the doctor would come to check on him at eleven, since his case wasn't urgent. As she said so Thranduil shot him a knowing, reassuring look; Bard supposed it meant that even though he couldn't check on everything himself, his doctor eyes could say there was little risk Bard would be denied to leave.

Bard waited for the nurse to leave the room before he spoke to Thranduil again. He sipped his tea, then tilted his head slightly to the side.

“How are you doing?”

Thranduil blinked, stopping his cup inches from his mouth, before he lowered it to his lap.

“Me?”

“Yes, you, who else?” Bard said.

“I'm fine,” Thranduil replied, just as he rubbed at his neck; Bard guessed he felt some sort of discomfort there, after a whole night sleeping in a chair.

“Thank you, for staying last night,” Bard told him. He knew the last time Thranduil had spent that much time in a hospital, it had been for the same reasons Bard had.

“You would have done the same for me,” Thranduil said kindly.

Bard smiled softly, his way of saying that yes, he would have, before his gaze fell on the apple in Thranduil's other hand. Bard frowned then, and reached out to take it from him. He earned a mock offended look in answer, which turned curious as Bard inspected the fruit more closely.

“They're more vivid, aren't they?” he said then, and the way Thranduil's gaze softened made his heart beat slightly faster in his chest.

“They are, yes.”

They exchanged a look that Bard himself didn't quite know how to read; he just knew it was filled with a shared yearning, soft and comforting.

They finished their breakfast with small talk and Bard's chest full of a warmth he never wished to feel gone ever again. It was strong and it was kind and it had been too long since he had last let such a feeling take up so much space inside him. It had been there for weeks and weeks now, but not in this way; Bard hadn't wanted to feed it too much when he hadn't known if they had a chance, or if Thranduil had felt the same way, even a little.

But Bard guessed he had always known somehow, and had just been waiting for a confirmation. One tended to recognize such things, even if it was only to (un)consciously deny them afterwards.

Last night, he had been offered it, this confirmation. And even though Thranduil still needed to think, still needed to decide if he was ready to take those risks with him, now that Bard knew this warmth was shared, he couldn't bring himself to keep it at bay.

And so he embraced it this morning, as Thranduil told him about the few clients Elrond sometimes sent him to give him something to do when he wasn’t with Bard, and about Mr. Whiskerson's latest adventures, and Legolas' discovery of a true-and-very-much-real dragon egg in the form of a rather round rock a few days before.

In return Bard told him about the new additions to the shelter—two cats and a dog—as well as about the ones who had found new families. He told Thranduil about Sigrid's drawings and Tilda's brick construction, which Bain had accidentally destroyed as he’d run to the kitchen to turn off the water they’d forgotten was boiling for tea.

Those were things they always shared, but there were so many stories to be told, old and new, that even when they spent a full day together, they never ran out of things to say. It seemed to Bard that everything Thranduil said was interesting, and he was never tired to hear his stories.

It felt good, too, to be able to share those words with someone who could understand pain and loss in a similar way as he did. Someone that he loved and cared for in a different way than his children. What they had was simple, yet special, and there was nothing Bard would exchange it for. It hadn't been so long, since they had first met; three months, maybe four, and yet it felt as if he had known Thranduil forever.

Maybe it was a part of the bond, some people would say, that made them feel as if they couldn't live without the other anymore. Which was true; Bard couldn't imagine a world without Thranduil in it, now that he was such a big part of his. But Bard knew that it wasn't just the bond and its colours. It was Thranduil himself. He had been good, Bard thought, at hiding his feelings since that day he had figured them out on that Christmas' Eve day all those weeks ago. But he had never denied himself, in the end, that he loved Thranduil and that there was nothing that could change that.

As they talked, and Bard still felt a light pain in his head, and as Thranduil's presence and words filled the room, Bard was sure of it; this is what he wanted, and he would wait all the time in the world for it if he had to. He got lost in the beauty of Thranduil's eyes; Bard loved how there was a quiet spark to them, a spark that appeared just for him, just as there was another one Bard only saw addressed to the children.

Bard was snapped back to the reality of the situation—that he was sitting on a hospital bed and daydreaming as he stared at his friend, which wasn’t really appropriate—when there was a light knock. He gave Thranduil a shrug before he turned to the door.

“Come in!” he said, putting his empty cup of tea aside. Soon enough the door opened on Bilbo, followed by Thorin, who winced as his gaze fell on Thranduil.

Bard didn't get why they were having so much trouble appreciating the other's presence, but he guessed you couldn't like everyone. After all, he himself hadn't been particularly fond of Thorin either, at the beginning; but Bard respected him, and he had learned to like him over time.

“Good morning,” Bilbo greeted happily; he didn't seem able to hide how glad he was to see Bard well. “Thank God you're still alive!”

Bard rolled his eyes, a hint of amusement tainting them, and he couldn't help his light laugh when he noticed Thranduil had done just the same.

“Aye, that I am, I do hope you're not too disappointed,” Bard replied. “Hello, Thorin.”

“Good morning, Bard,” Thorin said, before his gaze fell on Thranduil. “Thranduil.”

“Thorin,” was all Thranduil said. “Thank you for the pastries, Bilbo. Delicious, as always.”

Bilbo made a small bow and smiled brightly as he stopped before the end of the bed.

“Always made with all his heart.” Surprisingly, those words didn't come from Bilbo; they came from Thorin, who looked upon his companion with the kind of look Bard craved to share with Thranduil. He knew he bore it, when Thranduil wasn't looking; it was Bain who had told him so. He had also heard Thranduil did, too, but Bard hadn't fully believed his son at the time, thinking he was just teasing him or trying to give him some sort of confidence he didn't actually need.

“So, are they going to let you out today?” Bilbo asked, his face taking a more serious expression after the enamoured one he had offered Thorin just seconds earlier.

“The doctor will come check on me later, but Thranduil thinks I'll be free to go, as planned.”

Bilbo let out a sigh of relief, before he rubbed his hand together and sent Thorin a meaningful look; he cleared his throat in answer, and connected the dark of his eyes to Bard's.

“Thank you, for what you did,” Thorin told him. “I should have thanked you yesterday, but—”

“It was nothing, someone had to say something,” Bard cut him off, making a small wave of his hand saying this conversation had no reason to be. “I just wish my face had been left out of it, but hey, what can you do?”

“Your face is fine, Bard,” Thranduil said, which made Bard shoot him a skeptical look.

“I might not have looked at it yet, but I know what someone with stitches and a black eye looks like, Thran.”

“You look fine to me,” Thranduil merely said as he inspected his fingernails with mock interest. “You always do.”

“Now look who's talking,” Bard teased, perfectly aware Thranduil was just trying to reassure him (which was rather useless, as Bard didn't care much about what he looked like), though he could hear in Thranduil's voice that there was an edge of truth to his words which made Bard smile to himself.

“Oh, _please_ ,” Thorin muttered, earning a glare from Bilbo, who, on the other hand, seemed to find the scene quite enjoyable.

“What if you both come over for dinner in a week or so?” Bilbo offered then, and Bard was glad for the change of subject; they truly were a little ridiculous. However, given Thorin's horrified look, _someone_ hadn't been consulted. If Bard had been sitting next the Thranduil he would have nudged him for his smirk.

“That sounds good to me,” Bard said with a shrug. It would be a nice change of air, and Bilbo's cooking was absolutely outstanding. His mouth was almost getting a little watery just at the thought of the last dinner he had shared with them, a few months ago.

“I'm not sure if that's a good idea,” Thranduil said flatly.

“I agree with him,” Thorin added, crossing his strong arms against his chest.

“Well, at least there's one thing you agree on,” Bilbo replied, sounding rather exasperated. “Come on, I'm sure we'll all have a very pleasant time!”

Thorin grumbled under his breath, but eventually agreed, and it took a somewhat pleading look from Bard for Thranduil to agree as well. Bilbo seemed immensely pleased, and recited the list of all the dishes he might cook for them until Bard's doctor entered the room. The couple took it as a sign it was time to leave, and after setting the date for exactly two weeks later—because that would be enough time for Bard to heal properly, and also because Thorin had to take care of his nephews next weekend as well.

As soon as the doctor confirmed that Bard was authorized to leave the hospital and instructed him to come back in a few days, Thranduil left the room to let Bard get ready in private. It was refreshed and with a happy sigh that he stepped into the fresh air not twenty minutes later, glad to be out of this place and hoping he would never have to step inside it again.

They went to Elrond's first; Thranduil didn't want Legolas to worry any more, nor Elrond himself, actually. They walked side by side, enjoying each other's presence and sometimes murmuring about one or another particular colour that caught their eye, talking about the memories that sometimes came with them.

They reached Elrond's house faster than they had thought, and it was Celebrian who opened the door, looking relieved to see Bard standing before her.

“It's good to know you're fine,” she said after she had greeted them. “I'll tell Elrond when he comes back.”

Bard didn't have the time to answer; Legolas, as usual, ran to him and hugged his legs with all the strength of his little arms. Celebrian offered them to stay and have some tea, but Bard politely declined, saying he had to go home to reassure his own children.

And so they had walked away, after Thranduil had thanked her for taking care of Legolas so well for those few hours.

Legolas proved difficult to convince not to hold Thranduil _and_ Bard's hand as he scampered between them; Legolas didn't insist, though, when Thranduil told him doing such a thing could bring problems upon them, problems that could get Bard hurt again, and no one here wanted that, right?

It made Bard sad, that they had to say such things to make sure none of the children would do something they would regret. He wished things were easier, but Thranduil was right to worry.

Bard cleared those thoughts out of his mind, though; he wanted to enjoy the day, and keep his hopes high while there was space for them in his life.

Seeing his shelter at the end of the street brought a smile to his face; it hadn't been long, but he longed to be close to his children again, to hear their laughs, and to make sure they would stop worrying about him. Despite their smiles, he had seen a darkness in their gazes when they had come to visit, something Bard couldn't bear to see in his children's eyes.

Bard was attacked by two happy children as soon as he entered the shelter; Tilda and Sigrid didn't wait a second to run to him in a similar way Legolas had, while Bain just gave him a smile and went back to the papers he was putting in the drawers of the reception.

Bard crouched before them, opening his arms so that they could give him the hug they were insisting on sharing with him.

“Does it hurt, da?” Tilda asked curiously, even though Sigrid had asked the same question the day before.

“No, not anymore,” Bard said softly. It was only a half-lie, but his smile was true enough for Tilda to believe him, and she put a kiss on his cheek. She then took Legolas' hand and lead him upstairs, claiming she had to show him the new building she had made with her building blocks.

Bard looked up to see Thranduil watching them go, something soft in the icy blue of his eyes. Sigrid didn't go with them, however; she stayed there, inspecting his face with a frown.

“What is it, darling?” Bard asked gently, patting her shoulder. She seemed to hesitate, sending Thranduil a quick look. “Whatever it is, you can tell us.”

Thranduil crouched as well then; Bard appreciated the gesture, for Sigrid relaxed a little and swayed on her feet, before she reached out to let her fingers linger shyly on the dark colours under his eye.

“Why did the man hurt you, da?”

Bard sighed, extended his hand to tuck a lock of hair behind her ear. It looked like avoiding serious talks wouldn’t be for today.

“He doesn't like Bilbo and Thorin very much. He called them bad names, threatened to accuse them of things they can be arrested for,” Bard explained as best as he could without getting into details she was way too young to hear about. Homosexuality was considered an illness, but it was all much more complicated than that, when it came to law. “I didn't agree with him, and he didn't like that, either.”

Sigrid didn't seem to understand why someone would hurt her da for such a reason, but she said nothing. Bard knew her well enough to know it was what crossed her mind as she looked down and appeared to be thinking hard.

“Is it because Mr. Bilbo and Mr. Thorin love each other?” Sigrid asked then as she looked up again, and Bard heard Thranduil sigh beside him. “Does it mean they don't like you and Thranduil, either?”

Bard was speechless for a short moment; a lump formed in his throat, but it was a good as much as a bad one. Good, because even though they weren't together, he realized his daughter was okay with it all. Bad, because he had wished his children wouldn't be burdened with such a reality already.

Behind her, Bain was watching, something sorry about his expression. 

It was Thranduil who broke the silence.

“Yes. That is why we'd like to ask you, Legolas, and your sister to not talk about us as anything other than friends,” he exchanged a look with Bard, asking for a silent authorization. Bard nodded; after the recent events, it was time they knew just a little bit more.

“Our case is a little different, and they could take you away from us,” Bard said softly, hating himself for the way Sigrid's eyes widened in horror. “But I don't want you to worry, alright? Because as long as no one knows, nothing bad can happen to us, and we can all stay together.”

And Bard wouldn't promise, for though he had hope, he didn't want to betray his own children's trust. He was an optimistic person, that was true, but he was also realistic. 

It was enough for Sigrid, though, for her smile brightened up her face again and she nodded vigorously. She went for another hug, which she gave to Thranduil as well.

“I'll go tell Tilda and Leggy,” she exclaimed, sounding as if she had put an extremely important responsibility on her shoulders, and that she was very proud of it as well. “I love you, da!”

And to that she ran off down the corridor to the stairs. Bain was still behind the reception desk, but given the way he was looking at them, he’d listened to the whole conversation. He was smiling, though, and Bard couldn't help feeling relieved as well. Something told him he wouldn't have to worry about this issue anymore, and that was exactly what he and Thranduil needed just now.

Bard stood up, and turned to meet Thranduil's eyes; he expected to find some kind of worry in them, maybe even the same relief Bard himself felt, but instead he was met with a raised eyebrow.

“What?” Bard asked after a short moment of silence as he was being stared at for a reason that was completely out of his reach.

“ _Leggy?_ ” Oh, that.

“I—uh, I have nothing to do with it,” Bard tried, but he was sure the sheepishness of his smile betrayed him. Bain's snort certainly didn't help.

Thranduil went back to raising an eyebrow at this, but didn't say anything more; he stared some more instead. Bard didn't understand why Thranduil didn't like that nickname much, but then it was true that it didn't sound really clever either. 

“So, wanna sit with the cats?” Bard offered as he gestured to the door leading to the animals' corridor. He didn't wait for his answer before walking towards it, shooting Bain a wink that made him roll his eyes as he passed by the desk.

“Glad to see you're already back in business, da,” he said.

“You can't get rid of me that easily, son,” Bard replied as he opened the door and disappeared behind it, Thranduil on his heels.

“You won't get away with this, Bard,” Thranduil said as Bard held the cat territory's door open for him, but he was smirking. It faded a little as they sat on the floor after they had left coats and hats on the chairs, though, and were soon enough surrounded by a few cats seeking for their attention.

They often talked here, for it was a quiet place, and Thranduil loved cats more than he cared to admit; Bard knew so, for he had slowly opened himself up in this place too, though Thranduil kept denying it.

Soon enough there was a cat on Thranduil's lap, another on Bard's, and one of the youngest on his shoulders.

“I'm glad they understand,” Thranduil told him moments later as he stroked the fur of big white cat at his feet. “And it is good, that we talked about it with her.”

Bard agreed, even though he didn't like it much; children shouldn't be worried by such things, but they couldn't take risks, not in their society. He also would have prefered to tell Legolas and Tilda himself, but Bard knew Sigrid would explain with her own words, and that it would be for the better; hopefully they would take it as some sort of (serious) game.

But he was glad, too, that all their children had given their blessing, in a way or another. It was another thing he didn't have to worry about anymore.

“I think—”

Bard didn't have the chance to speak the words at the tip of his tongue; Sigrid, Tilda and Legolas had just entered the room, smiles on their faces and sparkles in their eyes. They gathered all together, petting the cats as they sat around them.

The afternoon was scattered with games and talks about animals and friends, sometimes punctuated with questions from Legolas or Tilda about what Sigrid had repeated them; they were all answered in a lighter way than the subject had been introduced, for they were younger and worrying them was the last thing he and Thranduil wanted. Bard made sure things were clear, and explained with simple words, as to not put a burden on their small shoulders.

“So, does this mean you and da are a couple?” Tilda had beamed in the middle of it all.

It had been difficult to explain that no, they weren't, but that they liked each other very much all the same and that it might just take a little more time, and that if they never were, that was okay, too, and nothing would change.

But Bard believed with all his heart that they could really have something beautiful, should they give it a chance.

Oh, what they had now was already beautiful, to be sure; but Bard just wished they could be more someday, but as he watched Thranduil go along with Tilda's games, he was comforted in the idea that this would be enough all the same.

There was simply this ever growing need to share something more, something else that they both wanted; words and gestures of affection. It wouldn’t change much, if anything at all, in terms of the risks they were already taking, just by being so close. But Bard understood how taking that step forward, how a kiss or the three words that wouldn’t leave his mind, would be like crossing a line for Thranduil, something that there would be no turning back from. Or at least, not in a way that wouldn’t hurt.

Bard looked down at the pocket watch he had picked up from his waistcoat's pocket, and stroked its surface with a light finger. 

Bard smiled, as he reminded himself that still, there was love, and as long as they had each other, they would be just fine.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> First of all, this is the cheesiest way to end a chapter I've ever written. I'm not sorry. (no for real I am, and I'm ashamed)
> 
> Then, my friend and beta [Iza](http://archiveofourown.org/users/Piyo13/) (who's doing an amazing job) made a beautiful piece of art for this story, [go check it out](http://piyo13sdoodles.tumblr.com/post/132859051971/happy-birthday-b%C3%A9r%C3%A9nice-based-on-her-fic-those)! <3
> 
> Also, she thought it was a great idea to say that Thranduil doesn't like the nickname 'Leggy' because that's how his mother liked to call him. You can all blame her for turning this innocent thing into angst.
> 
> Honestly I do not know what happened to someone who had children who had a homoromantic/sexual relationship. I couldn't find anything about it (I guess it was very very rare, or that people were very careful, or if it ever happened at all? society, beliefs, 'bisexuality doesn't exist' and all?) But, since homosexuality was considered an illness, and since you were arrested for 'homosexual acts/behavior', I don't think you got to keep your children around if your homosexuality/relationship was discovered. Surely it made everything worse? 'oh the poor children, living with these ill people! what if they did things before their innocent eyes!', you know? If you know more about this and if I'm getting it all wrong, please kindly let me know, I'd be thankful! :) *worries*
> 
> I can't believe this story reached 50k and they haven't kissed yet. Hopefully you won't have to wait much longer! :3
> 
> I hope you liked this chapter! :D


	12. Hope

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> So sorry for the wait, but here's chapter 12! Also, remember to breathe, eheh.

Bard would deny it to whoever might mention it, but he hadn't been able to keep his eyes off his pocket watch all morning. Whenever he got the chance, whenever he felt the actual passing of time, he had to check how long it had been since he’d last got the watch out of his pocket. He wouldn't even admit to himself that it was rarely more than twenty minutes.

Luckily, with the afternoon came more curious people, and much to Bard's pleasure, new families for his little friends. Today ended up being a particularly good day indeed: he and Bain managed to get not one, but three cats adopted, as well as two dogs. Needless to say this almost never happened, and Bard couldn't help but believe it had to be some sign that today was going to be a special day.

Of course, all of this had nothing to do with the fact his and Thranduil's dinner at Bilbo's was meant to happen tonight.

Bard was immensely excited; he had been waiting for it for two weeks now, and he truly wanted this evening to be special, and one they would remember. Not because of the dinner itself, no, but because of what he hoped to do just after. If Bard had to be honest, he hadn't yet decided if it was a good idea or not, and that was why he tried to not think about it too much; it was useless to put his hopes too high, if in the end he found that the occasion wasn't the right one.

Nothing much had changed during these two weeks after his accident. Bard had gotten his stitches removed, and though he had a scar there for the moment, it would disappear soon enough, as if nothing had happened. Until then, he had to suffer from Legolas and Tilda's games at trying to make him look like a pirate, because with a scar like his, what, other than a pirate, could Bard be?

Thranduil had been visiting regularly, though Elrond had been in need of his help for a day or two. They hadn't talked about their discussion in the hospital room again, but Bard guessed it was as much on Thranduil's mind as it was on his. Thranduil's behaviour wasn't much different, at the beginning. But then Bard had seen it again; that spark in his eyes, his hand trying to get to his when they sat on the couch with their tea, only to withdraw when Bard thought Thranduil would finally take it and hold it.

Bard could almost see Thranduil's struggle. He could see how he desperately wanted the same thing as he did, how he wanted to share again that moment they’d had back at the hospital. But he understood, for he wasn't unwary either. And so, Bard said nothing, but smiled and made sure things kept going as they always did.

Progressively, Bard had noticed it; hope slowly making its way inside Thranduil's eyes. It was fragile though, and Bard hadn't wanted to break it by taking his chance. So he had waited, until today.

Until today, for he considered trying, if Thranduil seemed ready for it after tonight's dinner. Bard wasn't sure, but whatever happened, he knew today was good, and hopefully tonight would be as well.

There was a place Bard wanted to show him.

“Da, are you daydreaming again?”

Bain's voice snapped Bard back to reality. By his side stood Faramir, who had come to help even though no help was actually needed. His gaze was curious, but he said nothing and just gave Bard a shy smile.

“It's closing time,” Bard said. “I'm allowed to relax.”

“Well, you'd better get going if you want to be ready for tonight,” Bain said, then shrugged before he took Faramir by the sleeve and got him out of the room.

Bain was right, though, and so Bard started putting order in the adoption papers scattered on the reception desk with a renewed energy. He checked his watch; it read 5:27 P.M., which left him just enough time to clean up the room while Bain and Faramir took cake of the animals, and then to go upstairs and put on something just a bit more decent.

Bard knew he didn't have to be well-dressed for a dinner at Bilbo's, but he also knew Thranduil would make sure to look good—as if he didn't all the time already—and he wanted to be presentable as well, if only for him. Bilbo and Thorin would certainly find it amusing, but Bard didn't care much.

And so, he picked the same outfit he had worn on New Year's Eve (since it was his best one, apart from his wedding suit) and was ready just in time to find Thranduil waiting on the shelter's doorstep.

As Bard had expected, Thranduil looked absolutely dazzling. 

He was wearing a black suit with a tie matching the colour of his eyes—a detail Bard was more than happy to be able to notice—and he had a open coat over it all; nights were slowly getting warmer, but Bard hoped he wouldn't catch his death nonetheless.

“Good evening,” Thranduil greeted, with a slight bow of his head.

“Beautiful night, isn't it?” Bard answered with a small smile, before he gestured to the sidewalk.

Thranduil nodded as he took the lead, Bard quickly catching up to walk beside him. He clapped his hands behind his back and tried to catch glimpses of Thranduil's expression.

“You look tense,” Bard pointed out after a few minutes.

“I haven't been to a dinner in a long time,” Thranduil replied honestly, though it was no secret he sometimes went to Elrond's. But this was different, Bard knew; even if Bilbo and Thorin weren't strangers, Thranduil didn't know them in the same way Bard did, and even then Bard doubted they would ever see the Thranduil that Bard had gotten to know.

“It'll be fine, you'll see,” Bard told him. “Bilbo's an outstanding cook. Puts my mother to shame.”

“Hearing you, one would think you're only going for the food,” Thranduil teased kindly, a smirk on his lips.

Bard laughed lightly, gently nudging Thranduil with his shoulder.

“No, of course not,” he said, and it was true. “But just wait 'til you've tasted it, then we'll see if you won't be interested in going back for the food as well.”

A small laugh escaped Thranduil's lips, only to fade once Bard caught him by the arm to stop him, and pointed to a slightly bigger wooden door. Now they were here, Bard hoped it wouldn't take too long for Thranduil to get used to Thorin's presence.

Bard knocked, and not three seconds later the door opened on a grinning Bilbo, cooking gloves in his hand.

“Welcome, welcome!” Bilbo said, gesturing for them to come inside.

Bard sent Thranduil a meaningful look before he stepped in first, glad to feel the warm atmosphere of Bilbo's home; it was small and cosy, and surely a nice place to live in. It had to be lonely though, for it was rather big for only one person. Thorin didn't live here, of course, and as he realized this Bard was thankful for Thranduil's house; it was far away enough from the town for them to spend more time together than they would be able to if they lived here.

Bilbo took their coats and hats, instructing them to go to the dining room already.

A table had been set, with candles and lovely red table-napkins. It felt safe, as if nothing could reach them in here. A bit like Thranduil's house, but in a different way. The place was welcoming, and just as Bard remembered it. However, as Bard turned to check on Thranduil, he realized there was one thing he had completely forgotten about: the ceiling was just a little bit lower than in most houses, but it was enough to make Thranduil look completely out of place.

Thranduil glared when Bard couldn't help but shoot him an amused look.

“Bard, Thranduil.”

The both of them turned then, to see Thorin entering the room.

“How are you, Thorin?” Bard asked him.

“We'll see soon enough,” Thorin answered, sending Thranduil an unreadable look that got Bard shaking his head in annoyance.

And indeed they did; Bilbo soon came back and told them to sit, for they would have some soup and then talk until dinner was ready. Thorin and Thranduil kept disagreeing on everything, to the point that Bard seriously considered they were pretending so just to bother the other.

As they ate the soup, Bard wasn't short on compliments, while Thranduil refuted the humming Thorin (and Bard) accused him of. That was the only moment when they stopped being at each other's throat, which was cut short as soon as the table was cleared.

They almost looked like an old married couple who couldn't stand each other anymore, and Bard didn't know if the thought made him want to laugh or cry. He couldn't retain a snort when Thorin very unsubtly poked a needle at Thranduil again.

“What's so funny?” Thranduil asked, raising an eyebrow.

“You two are like an old married couple,” Bard answered with a shrug.

The disgust that showed on both their faces was probably one of the best sights Bard had ever been offered, and given Bilbo's laugh, he wasn't the only one to find it all quite amusing.

“You can keep him,” Thorin muttered under his breath, just as Thranduil said the same to Bilbo.

Bard and Bilbo exchanged a glance; maybe they weren't so different after all.

“Help me serve dinner, love?” Bilbo said then, and Thorin immediately stood up with a nod.

Bard didn't miss the way his hand went to rest on Bilbo's lower back, then up to his shoulder, and if Thranduil's gaze was anything to go by, he wasn't the only one; there was a soft envy in Thranduil's eyes as he looked from the couple to Bard, one that Bard found difficult to ignore, for he felt it, too.

He smiled though, and extended his hand to gently squeeze Thranduil's shoulder.

“So, is it that bad?”

It took some time for Thranduil to answer, with Bard's amused gaze fixed on him.

“Oakenshield's a pain, but at least he's entertaining,” Thranduil replied as he played with his fork.

“Glad to hear you're having fun,” Bard said, taking his hand away after a small squeeze.

“I wouldn't call it 'fun', but it is not unpleasant,” Thranduil said back. “And, they give me some hope.”

Bard nodded, and Thranduil looked back to the table.

“You're thinking about it, then?” Bard didn't want to rush Thranduil, and so his voice was gentle as he asked the question. He knew the answer would be some sort of 'yes', just as Thranduil knew he did. It was more of a reminder that Bard was still there, waiting with open arms, and that he hadn't forgotten.

“All the time,” was Thranduil's answer, who didn't look away from the table. It was the kind of answer Bard had hoped for, even though it wouldn't mean anything if Thranduil hadn't mentioned hope just a few seconds before.

Tentatively, Bard reached out to close his fingers around Thranduil's wrist. The gesture was light, unhurried; if Thranduil wanted to draw out, he could easily do so. But he didn't, much to Bard's delight. Instead, he saw a small smile slowly brightening up his face.

Bard hoped Thranduil would turn again and look at him, so he could send it back.

“I saw that,” Bilbo said from behind them, breaking the moment.

The both of them instantly drew away, hands finding their laps; but Bard saw how Thranduil's tension seemed to have lessened, how it took slightly longer than usual for his smile to fade.

Bard took it as a good sign.

Dinner was a good as Bard had said it would be; carrots and fried potatoes and fish, though Bard didn't have of the last one. It was a simple meal, but tasty and delicious. Even Thranduil, despite his raised eyebrow as the plate had been put before him, quickly praised Bilbo for his talent as soon as he had his first bites.

“How are you doing, Bard?” Thorin asked, as they were finishing their plates.

“Oh, I'm fine, really,” Bard answered. “The children are loving the scar.”

“We wante—”

“Oh please, don't thank me again, Bilbo,” Bard said with a roll of his eyes. “If you really want to, let's just consider this dinner your last thanks, alright?”

Bilbo humpfed, but nodded. As for Thorin, he simply addressed Bard with a nod of his head, his eyes full of more words than he could speak; they owed him much, and wanted him to remember that. But Bard didn't want to be repaid, for he had done what was right, and that was all he needed to know.

Thranduil had remained silent, but Bard could see the clenched fist on his lap, in total contrast with the hand that was absently playing with a napkin. Bard wondered what he might be thinking; surely the conversation reminded him of the dangers of their situation, which simply wouldn't do.

It was a cat jumping on Thranduil's knees, while Thorin cleared the table, that Bard had to thank for the distraction that snapped Thranduil back to reality.

“Oh, hello,” he said, patting the striped cat's head. “Who's this?”

“This is Acorn,” Bilbo said gleefully. “Thorin brought him back from Bard's shelter, a few years ago now.”

“Did Tilda choose the name too?” Thranduil asked, darting Bard a smirk to which he answered with an innocent shrug.

“It was my wife, actually,” Bard said, and he was sure there was instantly something softer in the way Thranduil stroked the cat's neck.

“Yes, Acorn's an old fella,” Bilbo added fondly.

“Did you have to get through Tilda's interrogation, as well?”

“Ah, yes we did,” Bilbo laughed. “She was two, I think, so it was particularly amusing. Her questions didn't make much sense—no offense, Bard.”

“None taken,” Bard said. “It was indeed rather amusing.”

They talked a bit more of the children, until Thorin came back to ask if they wanted dessert already. Bard exchanged a look with Thranduil, and they agreed. Bilbo stood, but Thorin put a hand on his shoulder and, after a quick kiss, gently pushed him back on his chair. Bilbo rolled his eyes, and Thranduil did too, though for much different reasons.

Acorn chose that moment to go from Thranduil's lap to Bard's, his purr loud as he searched for his hand.

“Hello there,” Bard greeted the cat. “It's been a while.”

As Bilbo engaged Thranduil in a conversation about his work with Elrond, Bard listened distractly; Acorn brought back many good memories, and even if there was a sad tint to them, he welcomed their stories nonetheless. Mira, his wife, had always loved this cat for reasons Bard had never quite grasped.

Bard had been sad to see him go with Bilbo, but he knew his wife had always wanted each of their animals to find a new family.

He thought he heard Bilbo say something about hope and going on living, but Bard forgot about it as soon as Thranduil's hand appeared before his eyes.

A shiver ran down his spine as the hand found his, atop the cat. Bard could have done without the weight of Bilbo's gaze on him, but he didn't care much; he just looked up to meet Thranduil's eyes, and felt his heart fill with warmth, for there were shades of a slightly stronger hope to be seen there. There were still doubts, yes, but something else as well, to go with the light squeeze of Thranduil's fingers around his.

Maybe he should have listened to their conversation, in the end. 

“Sorry,” Bard said. “What were you talking about?”

“Oh, would you look at that—dessert, marvelous!” Bilbo replied before Thranduil could say anything. Bard frowned, but didn't push the subject.

Thranduil looked away; he seemed to be deep in thought, but still his hand lingered until Acorn jumped from Bard's lap to go rub at Thorin's legs.

Instantly Bard missed the contact of skin against skin, but it was alright; something told him it would happen again, maybe sooner that he thought. Whatever Bilbo had told Thranduil, it seemed to have its effect on him. Thranduil looked more relaxed, though Bard could still feel how his fast mind was working; he inhaled deeply, straightened his jacket, sent a tentative—though yearning—glance Bard's way.

Maybe Bard had been right, earlier today; maybe tonight was special indeed, maybe he hadn't interpreted Thranduil's signs the wrong way. Maybe things were really looking up in the direction he had hoped they would, for the both of them.

Someone cleared their throat then, and Bard realized he had drifted off a little; he offered Thorin an apologetic look, which was answered with a nod.

Bard grinned upon noticing the dessert that had been put before him.

“Oh, jam roly-poly pudding!” Bard said, then raised a playfully suspicious eyebrow. “Are you trying to bring me back to my childhood, or to make a bad joke?”

Thorin snorted, and Thranduil barely retained a chuckle, earning a glare from both Bard and Bilbo.

“Enjoy your dead man's leg, Bard,” Thorin said.

“I thought you could bring some back for the children.” Bilbo shrugged, after nudging Thorin, but there was a smile at the corner of his mouth. Thranduil seemed rather amused as well, and Bard couldn't deny he enjoyed such a light atmosphere.

“I really appreciate it,” Bard told him. “Thank you.”

Dessert was even better than dinner; Bilbo was a wonderful cook, but he didn't run his own bakery for nothing, and Bard found himself thrown back to the soft days of his childhood and early teenage years. Once they were done, they talked a bit more, though Bard was more distracted by the way Thranduil's leg now leant against his, or the looks Thranduil sent his way.

Finally, dinner came to an end; Bard thanked their hosts profusely, and coats and hats were put back on.

“Thank you for such a pleasant evening,” Thranduil said as he shook Bilbo's hand, and then, more reluctantly, Thorin's.

“The pleasure was all ours,” Bilbo said. “Have a safe walk home.”

Bilbo sent Thranduil a look Bard couldn't read, before he closed the door with a last wave of his hand.

“So?” Bard simply asked as they walked away.

“Oakenshield's still a pain, but Bilbo makes up for him.” Bard couldn't help but roll his eyes. “However, I would do it again.”

Bard nodded, and smiled to himself; he guessed it was Thranduil's way to admit Thorin's company wasn't that bad.

They didn't say anything else for a moment; Thranduil's eyes didn't leave the sidewalk ahead, though he saluted politely when they crossed path with a couple, and Bard was too busy inspecting his face under the street lights. Their silence was one of companionship, floating around them in a soft and reassuring way against the colder air of the late evening, as they walked side by side.

Bard wished he could take hold of the hand hanging so close to his, but it was enough to feel like if he did, Thranduil's fingers would squeeze back.

There was nothing to read on what Bard could see of Thranduil's face, but Bard had come to know him well enough to notice that all the tension from the beginning of the evening had disappeared. With all that had been done and said during the past two weeks, and during dinner, Bard had a good feeling about it.

It felt like the right time; this was his chance, and Bard wouldn't forgive himself if he didn't take it.

“I'd like to take you somewhere, someday soon, when the night is clear,” Bard told Thranduil as they walked down the path leading to the shelter.

“The night's clear right now,” Thranduil pointed out as he turned his head towards Bard, with a raised eyebrow.

Bard blinked, searching Thranduil's eyes. Despite the darkness all around, there was something about them, something softer; he hadn't been wrong. Bard hesitated though, for signs like this one were easily mistaken.

“Elrond's not expecting me until later tonight,” Thranduil said. “We still have some time to spare.”

Bard inspected him some more, before he slowly nodded.

“Fine,” Bard said. “Follow me.”

Thranduil didn't say anything as Bard put the pudding on his doorstep, before he lead him to the fields next to the forest and behind the shelter. He didn't have to go too far; just away enough from the houses and the streets' lights, but close enough so they could still find their way back.

It took Bard some time to find the place he had been looking for.

“Lie there,” Bard said, unable to help his smirk.

“I'm sorry?” Thranduil seemed taken aback; there was a frown on his face and confusion in his eyes.

When Thranduil didn't move despite the insistent look Bard shot him, he sat on the grass, before he leant down and put his hands behind his head. Bard let out a content sigh, for the grass was new and abundant in this particular spot, just like he remembered it to be.

He closed his eyes for a short moment, and when he opened them again, Thranduil was still standing above him, staring.

“Well, what are you waiting for?” Bard said. “The night's only getting colder.”

Thranduil rolled his eyes, but complied nonetheless; he sat and lay down next to Bard, and Bard said nothing as he watched Thranduil look up at the sky, waiting for his eyes to adjust.

“Beautiful, aren't they?” Bard merely said.

“Beautiful indeed,” Thranduil whispered, and Bard wondered what he was thinking right now.

“I thought you would like them,” Bard explained. “I've always found the stars to be rather peaceful to look at, and I think it is some more peace that you—that we need right now.”

Thranduil merely nodded, his gaze still fixed to the dark blue canopy. He said nothing for a while, but Bard could see how a smile was slowly forming on his lips, small but true; for Bard didn't look at the stars. No, he found Thranduil to be a much more enticing sight.

Bard didn't look away, nor did he try to hide the feelings in his eyes when Thranduil turned his head to face him. He had stopped doing so since the hospital.

They stared for a moment, their eyes not leaving each other, their breaths and the wind rushing through the grass being the only sounds around them. No cars, no animals, no voices. Just them.

There was something hanging in the air, waiting to be acknowledged.

It was there, at hand's reach.

Much to Bard's surprise, he wasn't the one who made the move. No, it was Thranduil; he had gone on his elbow, his head blocking Bard's view of the stars. Thranduil's hair fell in a cascade around his face. Tentatively, Bard held up his hand to tuck some of them behind his ear.

A small, soft smile found its way to Thranduil's lips, and it took just a blink for Bard to feel fingers lingering on his cheek, and then—

There were lips as soft as he had believed they would be, brushing his own.

It was tentative; there was an uncertainty to it, the one of someone who doesn't know what they're doing, of someone who acts on instinct and knows they do.

But Bard, he knew exactly what he wished, just as he knew he was the one who had to finish convincing Thranduil this is what he wanted, too.

He didn't wait any longer, didn't linger on thoughts that wouldn't get anywhere.

Before he could even think about stopping himself, his hands went up to frame Thranduil's face, to wipe more of the hair of his face and to slowly massage his temples as they looked into each other's eyes, getting lost in their colours like never before. They shouldn't be able to; but the sky was clear and their eyes had adjusted to the dark, and the moonlight was shining brighter tonight, as if it did so just for them.

And then, only then did he raise his head, and brought their lips together for the second time.

Thranduil’s lips tasted of the forest, flowers and tea.

Their kiss was chaste and gentle, but there was a firmness to it; what they had was fragile, precious, and Bard was aware of that. Thranduil wasn't convinced yet; he was moving forward despite his doubts. Bard could recognize the look of someone who had decided, just for this moment, to stop listening to his head. 

Bard smiled, and Thranduil did too; it made their teeth knock and it only made their smiles turn into grins. They broke apart then, to laugh lightly.

Bard felt like the boy who had fallen in love with his wife all over again; but Thranduil wasn’t Mira. He was a whole different person that Bard loved in a whole different way, though with the same strength, and a flame that burned lively, just for him. 

Just like his wife had been, Thranduil was like no other. He was a new, beautiful light in Bard’s small world, and Bard felt as if his heart was going to burst out of his chest as their eyes connected again.

“Laying on the grass under the stars—isn’t this a little—”

Bard cut Thranduil off by kissing him again; he knew what this was, and he didn’t care. What he cared about was them and what they were sharing. Maybe it was too much, but it was perfect all the same, and better than he had dared to imagine; no, it was special, and Bard wouldn’t change it for a lamp post or a threshold. 

They broke apart, smiles on their faces alongside uncertainty, and the soft spark Bard loved so much in Thranduil’s eyes. 

“Come over next week,” Bard said. “We’ll find something to do outside, then I'll cook, or whatever you want.”

“Why?” 

Bard frowned; he hadn’t expected this.

“Why not?”

“Bard, this—” Thranduil tried to protest.

“Let’s give it a try,” Bard insisted gently, squeezing Thranduil’s shoulders. “Let’s give us a try.”

Thranduil seemed to hesitate some more, but in the end he silently agreed, before he rolled on his back again. Bard's fingers found Thranduil's; they were still warm from the connection of their skins. 

They looked up to the stars some more, until it was time for Thranduil to go get Legolas.

“I’ll stay a little longer,” Bard told him. “If you don’t mind.”

Thranduil only shook his head. He paused, as if he wasn’t sure what to do next. 

They searched each other’s eyes once more, until Thranduil finally seemed to come to a decision, and left a last, soft kiss to Bard’s forehead. Then he stood up and walked away, sending looks behind him from time to time, to which Bard responded with waves of his hand. 

Bard’s heart was light in his chest, burning with hope.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Check out the amazing art [Léa](http://flemme-fatale.tumblr.com) made for this story, [here](http://flemme-fatale.tumblr.com/post/132886522139/breathingbarduil-happy-birthdayyyyyy-bard-and)! <3
> 
> I apologize for the cavities you might get now you've read this. I have a weakness for romantic things (and stars), I'm sorry. Enjoy the fluff while you can, eheh!
> 
> I had never written so much Bagginshield before, I hope it was fine? I'm not used to these characters.
> 
> But yay! After 55k, they kissed! Beware though, this story is not over, _things_ still have to happen *evil grin*  
>  There should be five to seven more chapters, I don't know yet! 
> 
> Also, about the pudding! It's a traditional British pudding, also called 'dead man's leg' or 'dead man's arm'. I was looking for a British dessert and when I saw this one, I couldn't resist.
> 
> Thank you [Iza](http://archiveofourown.org/users/Piyo13/) for editing this, you're the best. :3
> 
> By the way, chapters might take just a little longer to be posted. But never more than two weeks, I hope! 
> 
> As always your feedback means the world to me, and thank you so much for reading!


	13. Fear

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Yay, here's a new chapter for you! :D

“Bard, do you want to play with me and Whisk’?” 

Bard looked down at Legolas, who was tugging at his sleeve and giving him his best puppy eyes.

“Sure,” Bard agreed, without a second thought; he guessed it would take Thranduil a bit longer to get ready. “You’re the expert, why don’t you teach me?”

Legolas let out a small squeal, took his hand, and made him sit on the couch. He then picked up Mr. Whiskerson, and proceeded to explain his petting methods with pride for the next few minutes, slapping Bard’s hand whenever he didn’t do _exactly_ as he had been shown.

Mr. Whiskerson rolled on his back, exposing his soft belly to Bard and Legolas' fingers. His purr was loud, and if cats had expressions, Bard would say his was one of pure contentment. Legolas was smiling brightly as he stroked the fur on the cat's chest. Bard patted Whisk's head one last time, before he ruffled the boy's hair; that made Legolas stuck his tongue at him.

On their side on the floor before the fireplace, Bain was reading a book to Tilda, while Sigrid seemed to be greatly concentrated as she tried to read one by herself.

Bard picked up his crutch, and stood up. He took a deep breath, cursing his old injury for making his life such a pain sometimes, particularly on a day like this one. It wouldn't make the walk he had planned with Thranduil an easy one, but it wasn't as if he felt like the world was going to end, either.

“Da?”

Bard turned to face his son; he had stood as well. The story was over, and Tilda was now playing with Legolas and Mr. Whiskerson, their laughs quickly filling the room.

“Yes?”

“You don't have to bother picking us up, tonight,” Bain said. “We can sleep here. I'll bring Sig’ and Til’ to the park once Thranduil gets back, and we'll come back home later in the afternoon. It'll be easier for you.”

Bard frowned, inspected Bain's face; there was nothing to be seen but a genuine will to make things simpler.

“Don't you think you should ask that to Thranduil?” Bard inquired, raising an eyebrow at Bain's shrug.

“You'll have all the time of the world to ask him,” Bain replied, then shot Bard a knowing look. “I don't think he'll say no.”

“Don't assume things too quickly, son,” Bard said, rolling his eyes, though there was a small smile on his lips.

Before he could add anything else, Bain had gone back to the kids and sat amongst them. And with good timing, for Bard could hear Thranduil coming down the stairs. He appeared in the threshold, dressed as neatly as ever, though in a more comfortable way, like Bard had instructed him.

Bard couldn't help his grin when he noticed what Thranduil had put around his neck.

“My scarf,” he said as he took a few steps forward, “I had completely forgotten about it!”

“Me too,” Thranduil confessed. “I'll give it b—”

“You can keep it,” Bard cut him off, picking up the hat Thranduil had offered him as he did. “It suits you well.”

Thranduil said nothing; he just stared for a moment, then nodded and walked over to the children.

“Legolas,” Thranduil called, and the boy looked up from Mr. Whiskerson with curious eyes. “Behave while we're gone, alright?”

Legolas nodded vigorously, though he didn't get up to embrace his father or Bard, picking up the cat instead.

“You, too, girls,” Bard added, and bent down to kiss their foreheads as they nodded and giggled. “Bain, don't put them to bed too late.”

“I can manage, da,” Bain replied in mild annoyance.

With that they left the room, Bard putting his coat back on before he headed outside, Thranduil on his heels. He went to open the passenger's door, then got into the car.

“What is your plan?” Thranduil asked as soon as he was seated.

“Going to the shelter,” Bard merely said, though he was trying hard not to smirk.

Bard briefly turn to see Thranduil shooting him a skeptical look. Certainly going to the place they spend most of their times at wasn't what he had expected, but Bard had other plans.

“You're not going to tell me what we are going to do, are you?”

“Nope,” Bard answered, this time unable to retain a small laugh. It was nothing special, really, but he liked to tease his friend—or whatever he was, exactly.

The drive back to the shelter was fast and spent without another word. Bard parked the car in his usual spot, and invited Thranduil to go out as well. Bard found it amusing how he seemed to expect some kind of prank when really, he had nothing to fear.

“Can you go get my scarf upstairs?” Bard asked as he closed the door. “I'll go check on the animals again.”

“Of course,” was Thranduil's answer, before he disappeared down the corridor. Bard went to do as he’d said, but he picked up a leash and a collar first; checking on the dogs wasn't the only thing he had to do.

Luckily, everything seemed fine in the cats’ territory, and in the dogs’ as well. They’d all been fed before Bard and his children had left for Thranduil's house, and most were now drowsing on cushions or under blankets.

Bard petted the dogs that were awake, giving them some of his love and attention. It was a habit of his; he always did so when I wasn't accompanied by clients. He made it quicker this time, though, for he didn't want to make Thranduil wait for too long.

He stopped before a particular cage, let his fingers linger on the handle.

“Hello, Samaân,” he said. “You ready for a walk?”

The dog looked up to him curiously, tilting his head to the side.

Bard entered the cage, then crouched to put the collar around his neck and attach the leash. The dog, a Romanian Carpathian Shepherd, wagged his tail gleefully as Bard got him out and led him back to the reception, where Thranduil was waiting for him.

Thranduil glared at Bard the second he noticed his big companion.

“I'm not a dog person,” Thranduil said flatly, handing him the scarf.

“It won't stop you from walking him with me,” Bard told him as he put the leash in Thranduil's hand in exchange for the scarf, and put it on. “Come on, let's go. We don't have all afternoon.”

Bard knew that if it had been anyone else asking—forcing—him, Thranduil wouldn't have agreed, and walked out the door without protesting any more, like he was doing now. Bard loved that feeling; the one of being special to Thranduil's eyes.

Just as he had the week before, Bard lead Thranduil to the fields behind the shelter.

Thranduil didn't seem comfortable at first, with Samaân pulling on the leash every time he wanted to smell something, but he was strong enough to stop the dog from running away, and soon he understood how to keep him close. Bard hadn't picked this dog for nothing; he knew Samaân was enthusiastic at the beginning, but would calm down later and walk by their side.

“You still didn't tell me where you're taking me,” Thranduil pointed out as Bard started heading for the forest's edge.

“Why does it matter so much?”

“I like to know what I'm doing,” Thranduil said.

Bard considered ignoring him, but when he glanced at Thranduil to see him staring expectantly, he sighed and rolled his eyes. So much for the surprise.

“We're going to the river. It's an hour walk from here,” Bard said, aware of how boring it probably sounded to Thranduil. “We'll relax, talk, then we'll come back the same way, or through the forest, it's up to you.”

Thranduil hummed pensively, though Bard saw how his eyes flickered to his leg. He was glad that Thranduil said nothing about it. Weeks earlier, Bard would have been asked if he was sure this was a good idea. But now, it seemed Thranduil trusted him enough to not call into question his decision to have this walk anyway.

“Bain proposed you'd stay the night,” Bard said then, his eyes not leaving the path. “This way I won't have to make a round-trip, and the girls can sleep undisturbed.”

At first, it was as if Thranduil didn't hear him. Their shoulders were brushing, and Bard's hand was close to his. Samaân walked happily ahead of them, and it was when Bard thought he wouldn't get any answer, that Thranduil spoke.

“If you make me this special tea of yours to warm us up, fine.”

Bard smiled, unable to retain a short laugh.

“Alright, alright,” he said. The air wasn't too cold, but given how long they would spend outside, some tea for their return would do them good. “Just try not to fall asleep on me like last time.”

“I have no idea what you're talking about,” Thranduil replied, and this time Bard laughed heartily.

For the first time since they had left the shelter, Thranduil smiled as well, only to end up chuckling despite himself.

Their bodies were closer, and Bard could barely wait to be completely away from prying eyes. In these fields, along these paths, they were safe. And, should someone come, they would see them from afar and react in consequence. It was the closest to freedom they could get to, except for in their own homes.

Here, there was no reason Bard couldn't take hold of Thranduil's hand, try to kiss him again, put his arm around his waist. Show him he was loved, that they were a risk worth taking.

Bard had thought a lot about the kisses they had shared that night under the stars. It had opened doors, but Bard had felt Thranduil's uncertainty. They weren't there yet, but they were close. Close enough that Bard could feel it, there, where his fingers wouldn't meet nothing but air and empty hopes.

As soon as they started walking down the hill, Bard's arm found Thranduil's waist. The gesture was bold, and Thranduil stiffened, only to relax when Bard looked up to him with a kind gaze, and let his hand linger up to Thranduil's shoulder where it stopped and rubbed comforting circles through the clothes.

Half of the walk was spent in comfortable silence, the other with small talk and stories. They marvelled at the flowers spring was bringing to life, talked about their colours and how they felt about them. It all gave Bard a pleasant feeling of peacefulness, as if the colours were only theirs to share. In some way, they were.

“We're not far,” Bard told Thranduil as they walked past a turn leading inside the forest; the path they might take to go back home. “Can you hear it?”

“Yes,” Thranduil answered. “Yes, I can.”

They exchanged a look, and as they passed bushes and walked down the road, they saw it; the river that narrowed to get inside the forest. Samaân let out a bark at the sight of the water, and pulled on the leash. Bard chose that moment to close his hand on Thranduil's wrist without warning, resulting on Thranduil letting go of the dog.

As Bard had expected, Samaân ran to the river's edge, only to come back moments later, his tail wagging in excitement.

He bent down to pet the dog’s head, then straightened up to surprise Thranduil again, by kissing his jawline. Before Bard could even think about searching for his lips instead, Thranduil had taken a step back, and laid skeptical eyes on him.

“I hope you know that, if you wanted me to let go of the dog, you could have said so.”

“Aye, I did,” Bard replied with a shrug, and a somewhat smug smile on his lips that got Thranduil roll his eyes again. He looked amused though, and there was something softer in his eyes. Bard could see that the same hope he bore had worked its way inside Thranduil.

Once they arrived at the river, Bard was glad to sit on a fallen tree and finally have some rest. From there they threw a stick to Samaân, who gladly ran and brought it back to them. They talked all the while, sharing thoughts and hopes and worries, as had always been their way.

Bard didn't notice the passing of time, and he forgot about the soreness of his leg. He was too focused on Thranduil, and the simple, though beautiful, landscape around them; there were more fields behind the river, and cows grazed in some, while others were covered in flowers and wild herbs.

Life was taking back its rightful place. It had always been unique to Bard's eyes, but there was something different to seeing it all in colours again, after so long; it made the simplicity of such a place all the more beautiful.

Samaân played in the river, uncaring of the cold water, only to shake himself and spill droplets of water all over them. Bard laughed, but Thranduil only winced, and muttered under his breath. It was this moment Bard chose to gently kiss his lips, while his laugh was still shaking him.

Thranduil's hands framed his face, and Bard was kissed back with more eagerness than he would have expected. There was something sure about Thranduil's gestures; he knew what he was doing. Bard could feel it in the way his lips searched his own, the way his hands lingered and touched and caressed.

Thranduil's eyes, however, as they met Bard's, told another tale. What he then said did as well.

“I know what I want,” Thranduil breathed against his lips. “And there's a lot I would do for it.”

Bard didn't answer; instead he kissed Thranduil again, until hands on his shoulders gently pushed him away.

“But I'm still not sure.”

“It doesn't seem like you're not,” Bard pointed out, frowning, though there was the tug of a teasing smile at the corner of his lips. He raised his hand to let his fingers linger on Thranduil's jawline, then through his hair and back down, to emphasize his words.

“What I want isn't always what I get,” Thranduil said, his voice undisturbed. “However, I get what I want, when I can.”

“You're losing me a little, here,” Bard confessed.

“I'll show you,” was Thranduil's reply. To that he closed the small gap between them, and kissed Bard again. Though his kiss was fiercer than before, his gestures were as purposeful as they were caring; they were ones of someone who, indeed, knew what they wanted, but didn't intend on making their touches anything else than loving.

By their side Samaân let out a whine, probably annoyed by the sudden lack of attention he was getting, and out of the corner of his eyes Bard saw him lay down, head on his paws. His attention was quickly brought back to Thranduil though, who was now kissing his jaw, then his neck. Bard took a deep breath, as he was lost in the warmth of his chest, the soft pressure of Thranduil's fingers through his clothes, the softness of lips against his skin.

Thranduil was letting go; Bard had never believed it would only take three weeks, but he had dared to hope, and it was happening.

Bard couldn't forget the risks they were going to take, but relief washed over him nonetheless, and there was no better feeling than that. For a second Bard wondered what it was that Bilbo had told Thranduil on that fateful evening, only to remember that he didn't care, not if this was the result.

He took matters into his own hands, initiating a few more gentle kisses, until Samaân made him stop by putting his head on their crossed knees. The sun was setting already, and the walk home wasn't a short one.

“We should go home,” Bard murmured, slightly out of breath, as he patted the dog's head.

Thranduil nodded, and stood up. He extended his hand, which Bard took. He stood as well, a wince on his face that Thranduil frowned at. Bard waved off his worry with a shake of his head.

“British weather,” Bard muttered. Spring was here, but hot days were not, and they had been sitting on that trunk for too long. 

“Walking should help, then,” Thranduil replied. “Let's go.”

Thranduil attached the leash to Samaân's collar, and after a last look to the river and its surroundings, they walked away.

Bard dared closing his hand on Thranduil's wrist, and lead him down the path through the forest. It was as if something had been lifted from his shoulders; his heart was lighter, and a feeling of contentment had settled in his chest along with the warmth he had grown used to, but was never too tired to bathe in.

In that instant, Bard could feel it; the colours around them—they were complete. This was as the setting sun should be, this was how he remembered the green of the grass, the vividness of the flowers. Everything around him screamed that this first step had been completed, and now it was time to start a new one. 

Soon or later, colours would spread to them, and complete the bond they shared. 

He met Thranduil’s eyes, seeing in them the same realization. Bard’s heart beat fast against his chest, as he was overwhelmed by joy and relief; he couldn’t believe they had come this far, that the colours of their world were back, and here to stay.

Bard let his hand go further down, until his fingers closed around Thranduil’s. He gave them a light squeeze, moved closer so that their shoulders would touch, and let himself be lost in this special, unique moment; he concentrated on Thranduil’s breath, felt the contact of his skin, took in the atmosphere around them, and quietened his thoughts.

This was all he needed to celebrate this new step.

Bard leaned more heavily on his crutch; it pained him, but it was nothing he hadn't experienced before, and he had seen worse. Besides, with Thranduil close by his side, with colours all around them, as they should be, he found little reason not to smile. It felt as if things were turning truly good for them; but all good things have their end, no matter how unfair they might turn out to be.

Bard snapped back to the present when he noticed movement further down the path, at the same time Thranduil abruptly get out of his grip, and took a step away from him.

People were coming their way, and, lost in their quiet amazement, they hadn’t noticed. 

The few seconds needed to recognize them were enough for fear to take hold of all the space inside Bard; it froze him, and even as he realized it was only Thorin and his nephews, he couldn’t stop the harsh beating of his heart, the fear rushing through his veins.

Bard wasn’t sure he wanted to know what Thranduil was thinking.

“Thorin, boys,” Thranduil greeted once they were close enough. To anyone, he would have sounded like his usual self, but Bard wasn’t just anyone; he could tell how Thranduil’s voice had a strained edge, how his body was just slightly more stiff.

“Bard!” Fíli and Kíli exclaimed in unison, only to run to Samaân, who welcomed them with happy barks as he received enthusiastic hugs.

“Hello, boys,” Bard said with a smile, then greeted Thorin with a nod of his head.

“Good evening,” Thorin said, inspecting their faces. If he thought anything of what he had seen, he said nothing of it. Bard guessed his own mortified expression had said enough; there was nothing Thorin could say that they didn’t know already. “Come on kids, let’s get going.” 

Fíli and Kíli petted Samaân’s head some more, uncaring of the licks the dog tried to give them, until Thorin called them again.

They stood there for a while longer, watching Thorin and the boys go. Then, Bard put his hand on Thranduil’s shoulder, gently pushing him to turn and walk away.

“They saw us,” Thranduil hissed. “It could have been someone else.”

“Thran, it's fine,” Bard tried, even though he understood how Thranduil was feeling; his own heart was still beating too fast, and not in the good way it had at first. “We're okay.”

“It could have.” Thranduil shook his head, pinched the bridge of his nose. “We can't do this. I was a fool to think we could.”

“It was one—”

“One time is sometimes one time too many, Bard!” Thranduil cut him off, his voice colder than Bard could ever remember. 

Bard didn’t argue any longer; it was no use, not when he could see Thranduil closing himself up before his very eyes. 

It was a step backwards, one that hurt; it had just taken a few seconds to crush down all the hope that had been built today. It left a bitter taste in Bard’s mouth. 

The rest of the walk was spent in silence. Bard tried hard to concentrate on Samaân, who walked peacefully ahead of them. But all he could notice, when he turned his head, was how deep in thought Thranduil seemed to be. Those thoughts didn't seem to be pleasant ones, if his slight frown was anything to go by.

It did nothing to ease the nervousness that was making its way inside him. Bard wished he had been more careful, knowing how close to the town they had been, for he feared he had broken something fragile: quick to shatter, and hard to repair.

“I’ll join you upstairs,” Bard told Thranduil once they stepped back inside the shelter.

He didn’t wait for an answer to lead Samaân down the corridor, to the dogs’ territory. There, Bard quickly but carefully brushed him, and spent a few more minutes stroking his neck.

“You've been a good boy,” Bard said as he ruffled the dog's head.

He avoided a lick to his face just in time, and after checking on the animals once more, went upstairs where Thranduil was waiting for him.

As he had promised, Bard made tea to go with the dinner they prepared together. Though Thranduil acted as usual throughout the evening, there was still a new tension in the air that Bard couldn't quite describe. It was light, almost imperceptible, but there nonetheless. 

Bard could see it, and it brought a bad feeling upon him. Whatever Thranduil was thinking about and not sharing with him, it wasn't anything good.

He tried to bring the subject up again, only to be ignored or given a smile that was supposed to be reassuring, but that felt more fake than anything else.

“Something troubles you,” Bard said quietly, as they sat on the couch like they had always liked to, cups of tea in their hands.

“Doesn’t it trouble you, too?” Thranduil asked, almost bitterly.

“Yes,” he answered. Bard turned then, bringing his leg up on the couch so that his body could face Thranduil. “I’m just not taking it the same way you do.”

“How do you, then?”

“I see it as a test, that we’ve passed,” Bard replied.

“The first of many,” was Thranduil’s hissed answer.

“Because tests scare you?”

“Of course not,” Thranduil said, his voice taking an exasperated edge. “But most tests don’t put the life you’ve worked hard to build and the people you care for in danger.”

“We would be fools to think we will never put our families in danger,” Bard replied carefully. “You know I would never do anything to hurt my kids, our kids, but I’d rather take those risks than feel like I’ve thrown away the chance to live the best of it with you.”

It took a moment for Thranduil to answer. He didn’t even turn to meet Bard’s eyes.

“You don’t know what you’re saying.” 

“I do.”

“You don’t, Bard!” Thranduil snarled. 

“ _I do,_ ” Bard snapped before he could stop himself, his voice rising. “Because I lo—”

He shut his mouth just in time. Thranduil had frozen, closed his eyes and took a deep breath.

Bard knew he loved Thranduil. It ran through his veins and it warmed his heart and burned under his skin, but there had always been something about these three words, something strong and special. They were not to be spoken lightly, and no matter how Bard felt it was his truth, he still wasn't sure if it was safe to share them with Thranduil.

However, he felt like right here, right now, he couldn't just say nothing, either.

“I fear I might love you,” Bard breathed then. He had already said it many times, but not with these words; he had said it with looks and touches and gestures of affection.

Why fear, one would ask? Because feeling for someone the way Bard did for Thranduil, it wasn't just any kind of love. It wasn't the love he had to give to his children or to his friends, the love Bard had felt for him in the earlier stages of their friendship. It was a stronger love, more fierce and more dangerous.

Acknowledging it was the step Bard feared Thranduil wasn't ready for. But maybe, just maybe, it was what he needed to hear.

Thranduil didn't answer; instead uncertainty painted his eyes again, reminding Bard that no matter how he had meant his words, he had still taken a risk by speaking them. He wasn't as disappointed as he might have been in other circumstances, that Thranduil hadn't spoken them back; he could see them in his eyes, there and strong despite his worry. He had felt them in his touches and his kisses, back at the river.

The tension around them decreased suddenly, but Bard looked away nonetheless.

“Listen, I understand you—”

“I fear I might love you, too.”

Bard's gaze went back to Thranduil's in a second. He got lost in the blue of his eyes, tried to read through them. He couldn't name much of what he saw, for they held too many conflicted emotions, which Bard was surprised to be allowed to see.

But what Bard could name, no matter how Thranduil was good in his attempt to hide it, was how he had come to a decision.

“I'm exhausted,” Thranduil said before Bard could say anything. “Let's go to bed.”

How abruptly such an important subject had been stopped dead in its tracks made a lump form in Bard's throat. He didn't like this. Maybe he had made a mistake; Thranduil wasn't one to speak his feelings easily, and he should have known so.

He wished they would talk, though; that Thranduil would share his thoughts with him. Didn't Bard understand his fears, after all?

“I'll take the sofa,” Bard said, gaze down.

“No, you won't.” Thranduil sent him a severe look, and his tone left no place for discussion. “Sleep with me.”

Bard's head shot up in surprise. Those three words had been spoken almost as a plea, under what first felt like a command. Even if Bard had wanted to decline, he wouldn't have been able to. He hadn't expected such a request, not after he had witnessed doubts creeping their way back to Thranduil's mind.

“Alright,” Bard said, standing up and heading to the bathroom. There, he changed to his night clothes before he went to the bedroom and sat on the mattress. His mind was racing as he took off his prosthesis and rubbed at his knee. He tried to put order in his thoughts, without success; too much had been happening this afternoon, and he was too tired to give it the time it needed to process.

He just hoped they wouldn't have to start again, and so Bard took comfort in the colours the bedside lamp brought to light: the brown of the nightstand, the beige of the floor, the light blue of the sheets. They were a reminder of the progress made, of how the bond they shared was still there, and maybe soon to be completed.

Bard let out a sigh, lay down, and closed his eyes.

He had to retain a gasp of surprise when he was awaken from his half-sleep by warm hands upon the skin of his stump. He opened his eyes and blinked at Thranduil, who was sitting on the bed with a concentrated look on his face.

“What are you doing?” Bard asked, confused.

“Massaging it might help relieve the pain,” Thranduil merely replied, without even looking up. “Just relax.”

Bard took a deep breath, and did as he was told. Thranduil's fingers worked skillfully, eased the soreness of his limb. It was something he often did himself, but having someone caring for him was different. From Bard, it was a sign of trust that he had never thought he would offer ever again.

“It does help,” Bard breathed after a while, contentment filling his voice.

Thranduil took it as a sign he could stop, for the soft pressure on his damaged skin disappeared after a few more strokes. Then, there was a weight by his side on the bed.

Bard opened his eyes at the same time he felt Thranduil getting closer, then his forehead against his shoulder.

“I'm sorry,” Thranduil said.

Bard couldn't see his face, but he knew such words were not spoken lightly.

“Why?” he asked, more tentatively than he had meant to.

Thranduil didn't answer, and if he spoke again afterwards, Bard didn't hear him.

The first time Bard woke up, it was from a nightmare. It had been weeks since he’d last had one, but there was something different tonight; he didn't wake up to the emptiness of a cold room. It took a shorter moment than usual for his shivers to stop and his breath to calm down, for there was another body against his, arms closed around him in a comforting embrace. There was Thranduil's steady breath against his neck, the brush of his lips against his skin, words of comfort whispered to him.

It was strange, to feel this again. Sharing the warmth of someone he loved, sharing a bed. Having someone to comfort and be comforted by when nights were too long, when he craved for a presence by his side.

Bard rolled on his back, then turned so that he could face Thranduil, even though he could not see his face in the dark. He buried his head under his chin and against his chest, and kissed his collarbone lazily. Bard felt a kiss being put to his forehead, as Thranduil tangled their legs together. 

He dared hope this closeness was a good sign, that they would be fine. There was nothing, right here and right now, that he wished more dearly for.

Slowly, Bard let himself drift back to sleep.

The second time Bard woke up, he was alone. There was no warm skin against his, no hair smelling of flowers spread on the pillows, no steady heart beating in unison with his.

He straightened on the bed, looked around. Thranduil's clothes weren't there either.

The only thing that stopped him from panicking were the noises he could hear coming from the living room.

Bard didn't know when the last time he put his prosthesis on this fast was. He didn't even bother putting on proper clothes, as he stumbled out of bed and walked quickly towards the source of the sound.

Thranduil was there, finishing putting his coat on. He was concentrated on the buttons, and didn't notice Bard's presence. Bard, however, did notice the tiredness on his face; he could safely guess that Thranduil had barely slept, if even at all.

“Thran, what are you doing?” he asked, his voice still rough from sleep.

Thranduil stopped in his tracks. He turned slowly, and for a fraction of second Bard thought he saw a hint of fear tainting his features. It was gone as soon as it had come.

“I need to get back to Legolas,” he said, his voice calm and reserved, and made no move to come and greet him.

Bard felt his throat go dry, his gut telling him this wasn't normal. Something was wrong. It had to be. 

“Are you alright?” Bard couldn't keep the worry out his voice. He reached for Thranduil's hand; it went stiff under his touch.

“Yes, you need not worry,” Thranduil said, but he didn't meet Bard's eyes.

They stood there for a few seconds that seemed like an eternity. When Thranduil's gaze finally met his, there was nothing to see in there; it was blank, Thranduil's emotions concealed behind that mask. It had been a long time, since Bard had been on the receiving end of it.

It didn't even feel like he had ever fully been, until now.

Bard wanted to kiss him, but he didn't dare.

“I'm sorry,” Thranduil said, getting out of his grip. “I'm so sorry.”

And then he disappeared through the door, without a second glance.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Sorry not sorry. <3 Here the angst begins. 
> 
> Let me know what you think? (feel free to yell (incoherently) at me) :D It means the world to me! Thank you so much for reading! 
> 
> Thanks to [Iza](http://archiveofourown.org/users/Piyo13/) (you should totally check out her works) for editing this, as always!


	14. Broken

Bard considered putting on some decent clothes and running after Thranduil. That was what his heart told him to do; but after pacing the room a few times, he decided to listen to his head instead. Thranduil clearly didn't want to talk to him, clearly needed some time alone, and Bard would give it to him.

Regardless of how the anxiety forced his stomach into knots, regardless of how the way Thranduil had walked out the door left a bitter taste in his mouth and a lump in his throat.

Bard ran a hand across his face, pinched the bridge of his nose. Then he sighed, and, with heavy feet, went to get himself ready.

As he took off his night shirt and watched his reflection in the mirror, Bard looked down at his hands. He found them shaking, almost imperceptibly; he was so used to it happening by now that he rarely noticed it anymore. Another deep breath, and he tried to calm the fast beating of his heart, the tension in his body.

Bard fought hard not to get into his car and drive to Thranduil's house. Staying here and waiting for his children's return was the best thing to do, and he couldn't leave without taking care of the animals first.

It would be good for Thranduil to have some time with Legolas. Bard could wait for the afternoon, and then go talk to Thranduil. Bard would talk with him, and he would fix this. They would find a way, and maybe it would even be easy; he wouldn't try anything again outside Thranduil's house. They would keep their relationship—or whatever they wanted to be together—there, and they would be fine.

All Bard had to do was to convince Thranduil. And he would. He hoped he would.

Bard sighed, and sat on the edge of the bathtub. He put his prosthesis away, then sat in the tub and got the water running. He felt its coldness on his skin, but he didn't care much about that. He cleaned himself up as soon as the water was lukewarm, and he hated how it felt like he was washing away all trace of the night he had spent with Thranduil. There was nothing he wished more, right then and right there, than to lie down and feel Thranduil's arms around him again, his warmth, and his skin against Bard’s own.

But it had all gone, as fast as it had come.

Maybe he had messed everything up. Maybe there wouldn't be a second chance. Maybe their feelings had gotten too far, as he knew Thranduil had feared, and there was no going back from there; he doubted neither of them could bear being together in a different way than the one they both wished for.

Bard shook those thoughts off; he refused to lose hope, not when there could still be some left. He refused to, until he’d talked with Thranduil. Bard knew him. There was still a chance he could change his mind, and it was that thought that Bard clung onto.

Once he was cleaned, dressed and ready, Bard ate a quick breakfast that he didn't take the time to enjoy; he merely wanted to busy himself until the children's return.

As much as he tried concentrating on anything but Thranduil, Bard found it difficult to keep his thoughts away from him. He was a constant in his mind, and he had been for a long time now. That Thranduil wasn't himself—or at least, not the Thranduil that Bard had come to know, who had opened himself up—did nothing to ease that constancy.

However, sitting with the cats helped. They were distracting, trying to be petted and played with. Bard had always enjoyed spending Sundays with the kids in this room, or getting some of the dogs outside. It had always lifted his mind, offered him comfort, sometimes even lowered his stress and made him forget all his sadness, in the months that had followed his wife's death.

They had always been there for him, just like he had always been there for them. It was a two way street, between the animals and himself. He saved them, and they helped him in return.

Bard was doing the paperwork when he heard the reception's door open, and turned just in time to see his children entering the shelter, their cheeks pink from playing outside. He smiled upon seeing them; if his furry companions were good comfort, his kids never failed to warm up his heart and bring a smile back to his face.

“Da!” Sigrid and Tilda beamed in unison as they ran to him, and bumped into his legs.

“Hello, my darlings,” he said, patting their heads before he bent down to kiss their foreheads.

“We saw squirrels!” Tilda told him, her hand stained in dirt finding his.

“Oh, did you?”

“Yes,” Sigrid confirmed, humping on her feet. “Tell da, Bain!”

Bard looked to his son, then, and his worries came running back to him. Bain's smile was forced, his eyes searched his father's; there was something on his mind.

“Girls, why don't you go upstairs and choose what you want for dinner?” Bard said, his gaze not leaving Bain.

They scoffed, as if they were feeling offense to have the subject ignored, but complied nonetheless. Bard waited for the sound of the door closing, before he sent Bain an urging look.

“Did something happen, yesterday?” Bain asked as he took a few steps closer, stopping right in front of him. There was a frown on his face that Bard didn't like much.

“What makes you think something did?” was Bard's answer. His voice didn't sound like it was his to his own ears; it was calm, but it had edges of hurry and worry.

“Thranduil, he—he didn't seem to be himself,” Bain started. “The way he said goodbye—you should go to him, da, something's not right.”

It didn't take more than that for Bard to grab his coat, instruct Bain to take care of the girls, and leave. If Bain had felt it, too, then he couldn't wait any longer. He should have known better; maybe not going after Thranduil immediately had been another mistake. The mere idea sent a shiver down Bard's spine. More than anything, he hoped he was wrong.

Bard got into his car, and it was with a firm grip on the steering wheel that he drove away.

When he arrived in front of Thranduil's home, his knuckles had turned white, and his heart threatened to burst out of his chest; it beat hard and fast, almost painfully so, in a constant reminder of the fear that was boiling inside him. The fresh air as he got out of his car did nothing to ease the pressure he felt around his ribcage.

As he laid eyes on the house, Bard was overwhelmed with an unpleasant feeling. All around him it was quiet, and the air felt heavy. There were no lights coming from the windows, no movement, nothing. They could very well be in the living room, Bard thought as he got closer, and stopped before the door.

He knocked once, twice, but there was no answer.

“Thranduil!” Bard called, trying to keep the worry out of his voice. “Legolas!”

He walked to the nearest window and tried to look inside; the kitchen was empty, and though Thranduil liked to light up a fire at this time, it seemed there was no light coming from the living room.

Bard went back to the door and put his hand on the handle. He took a deep breath, and pushed down.

Just as he had feared, it opened.

“Thranduil?” Bard took a step in. “Legolas, Whisk'?”

The only thing he was welcomed with was the dead silence of the place.

It was empty. All the furniture was still there, most of its decorations, but there was no life in the house anymore.

In the hallway, there were no more shoes by the door, no more coats hanging to the hangers on the wall.

In the kitchen, there was no more cat food, no more bowls, no more fresh fruits.

In the living room, there was no fire, no more paintings, no more toys.

Bard didn't even dare go upstairs, already knowing what he would find there: half a closet, and empty beds.

No Whisk'.

No Legolas.

No Thranduil.

Gone.

Bard stood in the center in the room for a moment, trying to process what had happened—what was happening. Silence had left, replaced by the harsh beating of his blood against his temples. It wasn't fear that he felt anymore; it was quiet terror, spreading through his veins and making his hands shake, threatening to make him fall under his own weight.

He walked to the couch—their couch—on unsteady legs; he feared he might fall to his knees, would he stand up there any longer.

Once seated, Bard held his head between his hands and tried to keep his breath steady, because this couldn't be happening. 

He stared at the wall for a few minutes, his breath the only audible sound.

It simply couldn't be; and yet, here he was. Sitting in Thranduil's empty home, with shadows of past good times slowly growing all around him, as he took in this new reality.

He remembered tea and hot chocolate, their children playing by the fire with that stupid cat that had brought them together.

Bard felt his eyes grow wet; he rubbed them, tried to keep the salty water at bay.

There were songs, a New Year's Eve dinner, the feeling to be part of something bigger again, and a dance. 

Bard took one more deep breath, then exhaled shakily.

Then, there were colours. More laughs, more happy memories. Something special had started here, under this roof and by this fire. But the fire was dead, and it was all gone. There were just ghosts left, in a cold room, lightened up by the rays of the setting sun through the windows.

This couldn't be real, could it? They had to be close, not far from here, and they would come back. Thranduil couldn't—Bard shook his head, bit the inside of his cheek. Who was he to say what Thranduil could or could not do?

Bard looked up then, and though he held back a sob, there was nothing he could do to stop a tear from rolling down his cheek. There, on the top of the fireplace, was his scarf. The blue scarf he had given Thranduil a few days after their meeting, and that he had worn just the day before.

Next to it was a picture. Bard stood up and reached out, brought it into the sunlight, only to let his hand drop as soon as he recognized what it was; it was him with Mr. Whiskerson, from New Year's day morning.

His other hand closed on the scarf, which he brought to his nose; it still smelled of Thranduil and the forest. And just a little bit of dog.

That made Bard chuckle quietly to himself, only to break into a sob. The picture fell to the floor. Tears were quick to follow, and he couldn't find the strength to hold them back. Men don't cry, they always said. Bard hated how much life had taught him that wasn't true.

He fell to his knees before the dead fireplace, ignoring the sharp pain that ran through his leg from the shock, and held the scarf to his chest. The picture lay on the floor, half covered in ashes.

Bard had hoped too much. Hope was a good thing, but it could make one blind, were it given too much room to grow.

That was something Bard hadn't realized, and though Thranduil's smiles and affections certainly hadn't helped, Bard was convinced he was to blame for it. Now, here he was; he had been careless at the wrong place and at the wrong time, and there was nothing he had ever regretted more. Then, he had implied the deeper nature of his feelings too soon, and he guessed that had been the last straw.

Thranduil was gone. He was gone, and Bard knew him well enough to say that he might not come back. That he might have lost the man he loved, because he hadn't been patient enough, careful enough. Enough anything. It didn't matter, that Thranduil had initiated things between them back at the river. Bard had been told that day that he still wasn't sure, and he hadn't listened.

Yes, hope had blinded him, and now he was paying the price.

What a painful price it was.

Bard's fingers clenched onto the scarf, and he could barely contain another sob as his body trembled.

He reached for the pocketwatch Thranduil had gifted to him, and stroked its surface carefully, as if it would break, were he to put too much pressure onto it. That was how he felt about it, but also about himself. However, he couldn't just stay there, kneeling on the floor, and cry over how it felt like all they had built together had been crushed and shattered.

He had to go, before he lost his will to even move.

Bard took the picture, stood up, and put it in his wallet. For a moment, he stayed in the middle of the room, his eyes lost in the mist, until he put one foot ahead of the other, and left. Then, closing the door behind him proved itself difficult as well; Bard could barely find it in himself to leave this place behind, for he feared he would never find the strength to return.

Bard got into his car, and once seated, wiped his tears; he couldn't let the children see him like this. They couldn't guess that he had cried, though he knew Bain wouldn't be fooled.

What would he even say to the girls, he wondered then. How could he tell them their friends were gone? He couldn't do that to them, but—but maybe he wouldn't have to.

Bard took a deep breath, and started the car. Maybe he could find Thranduil, and bring him back. He couldn't have left without a single word, and Bard suddenly realized that if anyone knew where Thranduil had gone, it would be Elrond.

The drive was fast, but felt longer than it really was. Despite his nervousness, Bard had managed to not let his emotions influence too many of his actions, but in his state, driving at a safe speed cost him most of his patience.

Bard limped to the door, and knocked harshly; he had no time to lose, and he couldn't bear the thought of being too late already.

“Where is he?” Bard asked as soon as the door opened on Elrond, who, as expected, didn't seem surprised to see him. Worst: he seemed sorry.

“I don't know.”

“Where is he, Elrond,” Bard pleaded again, his tone taking just a slightly more dangerous edge.

“He didn't tell me, Bard, I'm sorry.”

Bard reached for Elrond's wrist, squeezed maybe harder than he had meant to.

“You're his friend, he would have told you _something_!”

“I _do not_ know, Bard,” Elrond repeated, and his voice was as firm as it was soft; it made Bard meet his eyes, and the sorry he saw in them made him stop, release the doctor’s wrist. “He wouldn't let me know.”

Bard's arms fell by his sides, his shoulders slumping in defeat. 

He shouldn't have waited for so long, he should have followed Thranduil as soon as he’d left.

His vision got blurry, but not from tears. He just didn't know where to look anymore. If Thranduil had left no indication, how could he be found? He could be anywhere by now.

There was no way to see him again that Bard could think of, apart from Thranduil coming back by himself. Such a thought triggered the pain in his chest and the lump in his throat; he couldn’t bear the idea of not seeing Thranduil again.

“I apologize,” Bard said. “I—”

“It's fine,” Elrond told him gently, but Bard barely heard him. “Come in, Bard.”

“He's not coming back, is he?” Bard breathed, ignoring the doctor's invitation. He had no time for tea, or whatever Elrond wanted to offer him. All he wanted was to go back to his children, once he got an answer.

Elrond didn't reply, but Bard looked up when a hand was put on his shoulder. _I don’t know,_ Elrond's eyes said.

Bard felt small and lost, as if all his landmarks have been wiped out. Thranduil was gone and Bard saw no reason for him to come back, not when he was sure such a decision had been difficult to make in the first place. He fought back tears once again; he would have enough time to cry them later tonight, when there would be no one to see him, and no one to offer him a hopeless comfort he didn't want anyway.

“He thinks keeping you safe is more important than his own happiness,” Elrond said, and Bard met his eyes again. “Can you blame him for that?”

“No. But he shouldn't,” Bard replied, turning away. He'd rather be unsafe with Thranduil than miserable without him. Worse, knowing Thranduil was unhappy, too. “Please let me know if he gets in touch with you.”

To that Bard left without a word of goodbye. He didn't have the strength to confront Elrond, to ask him why he hadn't tried to reason with Thranduil, to stop him from leaving.

He had to go back to his children. Right now, there was no one he wished to see more.

  


“I put Sig' and Til' to bed a few minutes ago,” Bain said as soon as Bard closed the door behind him. “They wanted you to tell them goodnight.”

Bard nodded, and went to the girls' bedroom. There, he kissed them goodnight, smiling at their squeals of happiness upon seeing him back home.

He was glad that they didn't ask about seeing Thranduil and Legolas soon. He wouldn't have known what to tell them. He still didn't know how he would announce the news. They would be heartbroken for sure, and Bard wished he could avoid giving them that pain.

“Did you fin—” Bain asked when Bard returned to the living room, but stopped halfway through. Bard had let himself fall on the couch, the scarf still in his hand, his breath slightly shaky. Bain's face was concerned as he sat next to him, and leaned over to inspect his father's eyes. “Oh.”

For a moment, Bard looked away. He didn't want his son to see him like this, but there were things he had to tell him.

“Da—”

“I'm okay,” Bard told him gently, trying a small smile. “Don't you worry about me.”

Bain didn't seem convinced, but he nodded nonetheless.

“What happened?” he asked. “Is Thranduil alright?”

“I don't know.” Bard shook his head. “But I doubt he is.”

“Why?” Bain got closer, and wrapped his arm around Bard's shoulders.

“Because—” Bard took a deep breath. “There's a lot I have to tell you.”

Bard told Bain about the colours, and learned—as Thranduil had guessed—that Bain had known for a while now. He explained what had happened at the hospital, and the day before, and why he thought Thranduil had left. He explained how he understood, but wished things hadn't turned out that way.

Bain understood, too, and that was of great comfort to Bard, who hated having to rely on his own son to talk about his feelings. He didn't believe it was a child's job, but maybe sometimes, it was for the best. Bain deserved to know, even if it meant Bard had to share such things with him.

Somehow, Bard managed to keep his tears at bay until he was alone in the cold of his room.

Sleep didn't find him that night. It barely did, on the nights that followed.

Bard hadn't thought things could get any worse. Over the next week, he took up the habit of looking at the picture Thranduil had left him, to replay in his head that fateful night. Then, he looked around and took comfort in the colours, and allowed himself to rebuild some hope. They were a reminder of what they had shared, and what they still could, if Thranduil returned to him.

He dared to hope, because there was nothing else he could do, even if hope had already failed him before, and more than once.

That was what he had thought, until, one morning, it was simply taken away from him.

He had woken up with a bad feeling, but he hadn't noticed it, at first. Then he had looked into his daughter's eyes, and had seen that the blue of her gaze had faded. It had been hard, to keep the pain out of his own eyes.

He hadn't thought distance would have had almost the same effect as death. Maybe it was because it felt enough like it for their bond to fade. Or at least, just the colours, for Thranduil’s absence only made the bond’s presence all the more noticeable, and Bard doubted only distance could break something so strong, something no one could quite yet explain. For now.

But Bard couldn’t be sure that was the reason for the fade, and he wasn't sure he wanted to be. What he was sure of, however, was that he was in pain, and that the colours’ full disappearance, and maybe someday the disappearance of the bond alongside them, wouldn't heal his wounds; it would only make them worse.

His heartbreak didn't stop Bard from going on with his life. He refused to let himself drown under his pain, not when his children still needed him, and his animals as well. Not when Thranduil wasn't dead and forever gone. Giving up wasn't an option, no matter how down he was feeling.

But that day, it really did feel as if all hope was lost. Bard found he couldn't stay home; he needed to walk, have some time for himself. He left the shelter under Bain’s care, and off he went.

It wasn't until he stopped before Bilbo's closed bakery (it always was, on Mondays), that he realized how quickly he had gotten lonely. He needed to talk to someone, and it couldn't be his son. 

He walked to Bilbo's house, hesitated. He wasn't sure bothering Bilbo with all this was a good idea, but he had a good heart, and he was a friend. At worst, Bard wouldn't linger if he was of any inconvenience.

Bard knocked, and patiently waited for an answer. He was relieved to see the door open on a smiling Bilbo, though how the velvet of his jacket had lost of its intensity was yet another reminded of his situation, making his own smile falter.

“Oh hello, Bard,” Bilbo greeted, sounding truly happy to see him, and as welcoming as ever. “I didn't expect you today, how have you been?”

“May I come in?” Bard merely asked, gesturing vaguely to the inside, and trying a new half-smile.

Bilbo frowned, surely sensing something was off. Bard knew him to be observant, and it had been a very long time, since Bard had last acted this way.

“Of course, you're always welcomed here,” he finally said, then stepped aside. “Come in, come in.”

“How's Thranduil?” Bilbo asked as Bard stepped inside. “I haven't seen him in a while. Neither have I seen you, actually.”

“He's gone.”

Bilbo stopped dead in his tracks, and turned to Bard, looking confused.

“I'm sorry?”

“Thranduil,” Bard said, taking off his hat and his coat, and putting them aside. “He's gone.”

Bilbo was silent for a moment, as he searched Bard's eyes. He didn't try to hide his pain and exhaustion; he needed someone to talk to, and he had guessed that if someone could understand, it was Bilbo.

“Oh, Bard, I'm sorry.”

“It's okay,” Bard said, but his voice quivered. “I can deal, I always have.”

He barely believed in his own words, and by the way Bilbo looked at him, he knew his friend wasn’t fooled, either.

“They're fading already,” Bard breathed. “The colours.”

“The colours?”

Bard's smile was a sad one, and Bilbo's fell completely. 

“Hadn't you figured it out?” Bard tried to laugh, but it wasn't much more than a broken, sad chuckle.

Bilbo shook his head and sighed, as if it wasn't that much of a surprise. Then, he put his hand on Bard's shoulder, and gently pushed him forward.

“Come on, let's sit,” Bilbo told him. “I'll make tea, and we'll talk.”

“Coffee will be just fine,” Bard said. He didn't like much how this reminded him of his many meetings with Thranduil: it did nothing but trigger the emptiness that had quickly settled inside him. He already missed him, more than he should after so little time apart, but the answer to why wasn't so difficult to figure out; he loved him too much. “Thank you.”

To that he followed Bilbo to the living room, and was instructed to sit on the sofa. Bilbo quickly came back with tea and coffee, as well as a few pastries of his own making.

“When did he leave?” Bilbo asked first.

“A week ago,” Bard said, and didn’t wait for more questions to come to keep going. “I took him on a walk, and it was going fine but—”

Bard shook his head, pinched the bridge of his nose. Bilbo took a sip of his tea, laying a somewhat concerned look on him. 

“We came across Thorin and his nephews. We didn’t recognize him at first. We thought it might be someone else.”

“It reminded him of the risks, didn’t it?”

Bard slowly nodded. “Yes. I guess he thinks it isn’t worth it, and I understand.”

Bilbo seemed to think for a while, slowly stirring his tea while Bard petted Acorn, who had jumped on the sofa and found a good place to nap by his side.

“No, I don’t think he does.”

Bard looked up from the cat, meeting Bilbo’s kind gaze.

“He shuts himself away to protect those he loves, even if it pains him greatly,” Bilbo said, putting a comforting hand on Bard's shoulder. “No matter how much it hurts you too, Bard, and there is nothing more brave or more selfless than that.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> It'll get better I promise. It feels so good to finally write down what I had fun foreshadowing since the very beginning, though!
> 
> Your feedback means the world to me! :D Thank you for sticking with this story!
> 
> Oh and, check out [this gorgeous Bard](http://artofliloujay.tumblr.com/post/134849452198/modernau-post-warau-bard-commission-for-the), drawn by [artofliloujay](http://artofliloujay.tumblr.com)!
> 
> Also, you can find me on tumblr [here](http://breathingbarduil.tumblr.com)! Don't be afraid to ask me questions and/or talk to me about my works! :3
> 
> My many thanks to [Iza](http://archiveofourown.org/users/Piyo13/) (you should totally check out her works) for editing this <3


	15. Memories

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Happy New Year! :D
> 
> I'm so sorry for being late! With leaving Florida to go home, Christmas, and New Year's Eve, I wasn't able to finish this chapter in time. :c 
> 
> I couldn't help myself, I had to introduce Maedhros and Fingon, because I'm trash (also it's kind of my beta's fault, you can blame her, too).

Bard couldn't bring himself to be mad at Thranduil. As much as he wished he had made a different decision, Bard understood. It pained him, but he did. However, things weren't so easy to explain to the children. He hadn't wanted to lie to them, when they asked why they didn't see Thranduil and Legolas anymore. Bard knew his girls weren't stupid, but still, they were children, and he hadn't wanted to burden them with the exact truth.

And so, he had told them Thranduil had left to live somewhere else. Somewhere where he wouldn't be worried about them, because yes, he loved them that much. It was an explanation filled with holes, but Sigrid and Tilda accepted it nonetheless, through the tears Bard had to wipe from their faces.

He had hated it, but he hadn't found it in himself to tell them that one of the reasons why Thranduil had left was because he loved their father—and their family—too much, and because the world they lived in could be cruel to people like them.

“Time heals all wounds”, people said, but Bard didn't have the faith to believe time would fill the ever-growing feeling of emptiness settling inside him. He had never completely healed from his wife's death, after all.

Bard never quite got used to Thranduil's absence, to that feeling, but he learned to live with it. His children made him smile everyday, and his animals were of great comfort when his little family wasn't there to remind him that his life hadn't ended the day Thranduil had disappeared, without a word, without a note.

It was a little more than a month later that Bard woke up to sniffing sounds beside his bed. He made out a small form in the darkness, and realized who it was as the last fogs of sleep left him.

He stretched his arm to turn on the bedside lamp. Light spread throughout the room, and there Tilda stood, holding her teddy bear close to her chest, her eyes red with tears.

Instantly Bard's face took on its softest expression, and he reached out to wipe a tear off her cheek.

“What is it, darling?” Bard asked gently, his voice still drowsy from sleep.

“I had a bad dream,” she said, rubbing her eye.

Bard smiled faintly, got out from under the covers, and sat on the edge of the bed. His gaze never left hers as he put his hands on his knees, and made sure he looked ready to listen to everything she might have to say.

“Tell me all about it, love.”

Tilda shook her head vigorously, hugging her teddy bear even closer to her small chest.

“It will help if you tell me.”

“Can I sleep with you, da?” she pleaded in a whisper.

Bard looked upon her fondly, remembering how he used to do the same when he was her age. But it had been long, since Tilda had last asked such a thing, and he hoped her sleep wouldn't be troubled again over the next weeks.

“Are you sure you don't want to tell me?” Bard asked again, though nothing in his tone made it sound as if it were a hidden command. He wouldn't force her, if she didn't want to. “Then, in that case, I can give you a big hug, and we'll sleep, alright?”

Tilda seemed to hesitate, biting her bottom lip almost nervously. Just when Bard thought she wasn’t going to say anything, she handed him her teddy bear, that he put near the pillow, and slowly drummed her fists against his knees, as if trying to find her words. She had never been upset upon seeing her father's old injury, for this was all she had known, just like her sister.

“You were leaving, too,” Tilda explained, her eyes filling themselves with tears once again. “And then Bain, and then Sigrid, and you weren't coming back, and I was here all alone, and the cats were turning into—”

Bard didn't let wait for her to finish to reach out for her. He hugged her close, stroking her hair reassuringly, and murmured quiet words of comfort to her ear.

“I'm here, darling,” he said, and made her look at him so that she could see his smile. “We're all here, it was just a bad dream.”

“Thranduil's not here,” Tilda pointed out, with another sniff.

“I know,” Bard sighed. “But nothing says he's not coming back, aye?”

She nodded slowly before she hid her face in the crook of his neck again. Bard stroked her back for a few more minutes, trying to soothe her as best he could with more whispered reassuring words. When her sniffing stopped, Bard put his hands on her shoulders, and gestured towards the bed.

“Come on, darling, you need to sleep,” he said. “Tomorrow we'll play with the dogs, and we'll all get a pastry at Bilbo's, how does that sound?”

“It sounds nice, da,” Tilda replied, a smile beginning to tug at the corner of her mouth. 

Bard got back under the covers, turned off the light, and lay at the far right of the bed.

Tilda quickly joined him after she had got her teddy bear back, and snuggled against his side. Bard put his arm around her shoulders, and kept a watchful eye over his little girl until she fell asleep.

As Bard kept Tilda close, he couldn't help but wonder about Legolas, too. If Tilda wasn't handling it well, Legolas almost certainly wasn’t. But, at least, he had Whisk' to keep him company, and remind him of the good times their families had shared. Bard hoped he was alright, and wondered how Thranduil was feeling. Surely he wasn't in a better mood than Bard was.

Selfishly, Bard hoped it would help getting Thranduil back to him; but he wouldn't harbor any illusions. Thranduil was stubborn, and determined. He wouldn't come back so easily, no matter how bad he possibly felt. Bard closed his eyes, mentally reprimanding himself for coming to such conclusions. Maybe Thranduil didn't feel bad about it, maybe he believed firmly in having done the right thing.

Maybe he did, yes. But Bard had seen how cold and closed Thranduil had acted before he had left. This hadn't been the behaviour of someone who was glad to do what they believed was right.

Bard let out another sigh. He'd better sleep, and leave his thoughts for another day. He let them wander, like pages of a journal left to the wind, moving too fast to be caught and read, and fell in Morpheus' arms.

  


Another month later, Bard woke up to the chirping of the birds, and rays of sunshine through the curtains. When he went to fully open them, the sky was clear and blue (at least as close to blue as Bard could guess); May had come, and spring had definitely settled in, ready to welcome summer, and brought with it a softer weather every day. There were more flowers than ever in the fields behind the shelter, and the foliage of the trees spoke of new life and better days.

It made him happy, of course, for the children were, too, and they could progressively give up their coats and scarves. He didn't have to worry about the cold as much as he used to, and Bard knew that, this season being kinder to them as well, it was less likely to find ill cats and dogs in the street.

Days were much the same as they were before Thranduil; Bard or Bain would accompany the girls to school, and on Sundays they would either go out with a few dogs, or stay indoors with them and the cats. Sometimes Sigrid or Tilda would ask after Thranduil and Legolas, but Bard had nothing to offer them; there was no news, no calls, nothing.

Though life went on, Bard found it difficult to see the colours fade more with each passing week. Just like they had once been a reminder of all he had shared with Thranduil, they were now one of the things he’d lost. It had been hard, to see his children's eyes go back to colours closer to grey than anything else. Brightness had left his life, day after day, leaving the world in shades of what it once was.

Bard didn't let it get him too down, though; he had experienced it before, got over it, and he would do so again. Life hadn't been bad, before Thranduil. The dullness around him hadn't been how he had felt, once his grief had been tamed enough. It had never been completely pushed to the side—his mourning had never quite stopped—but the Earth hadn't stopped turning, and concentrating on his children and his shelter had been what had brought light back into his life.

As for Thranduil, he had brought back a different kind of happiness, and the colours that came with it. He had brought back light where Bard had thought there would never be again, and letting go of it all was a complicated task.

Bard shook his head; it wasn't good, to let such thoughts busy his mind before the day could even start.

He got ready, quietly singing _Pretend_ to himself. When the girls heard his humming as he woke them up, they cheered; they loved their father's singing, and were quick to ask for other songs throughout breakfast, then on the walk to school.

Bard came back to the shelter with a lighter mind, feeling glad for such a sweet morning.

He cleaned the cats and the dogs' territories with Bain until noon, one or the other running back to the reception when someone opened their door. They had a dog adopted that day, and by three o'clock, Bard was in a particularly good mood. They had worked well and hard, Faramir had kindly brought them lunch, and hours had gone by in a good atmosphere. He looked forward to picking up the girls at school, for it would be all the brighter; there was nothing quite like the laughter of his children after a long day.

Bard settled down to put order in the papers until then, checking his watch from time to time. Though it hadn’t been a problem months earlier, it was one now, for doing so immediately made him think of Thranduil.

His fingers lingered on the pocket watch, and he sighed. It was true he was glad, but Bard missed Thranduil still. He missed his presence, feeling his eyes on him as he worked, their conversations and the brushing of their shoulders. He missed sharing so much of his life with him: from the feeding of the animals, to picking up their children at school, to Thranduil leaning on the desk with his head in his hands as Bard struggled with the paperwork, to sitting on the couch with tea, and everything in between.

He missed pointing at new shades of colours, and telling the stories of what they had thought and felt the first time they had seen them, all those years ago, when they had someone else to share them with.

Life was fine, just not quite complete.

“Look at that, he's daydreaming,” someone said, then called, “Bard, boy?”

Bard blinked, cleared the memories out of his mind. He put the watch back in his pocket, and looked up to who had called for him.

Two elderly men stood before the reception desk, something of an amused light in their eyes. Bard knew the taller one to be Maedhros Fëanorion, Elrond's adoptive father, for they had met before, as he often visited the animals with his brother and his grandchildren. His short hair was light grey, though what Bard guessed was ginger still lingered here and there, and Bard wished he had such a good prosthesis for his leg as the man had for his hand.

The other one had a kinder face, with longer hair of a darker grey. Through some of his braids, there were ribbons, clearly put there by the unskilful hands of small children. Bard had never properly talked to him save for the few times he had come in to buy food for the cat he had adopted here, but knew he was called Fingon, and was close to Elrond's family.

“Good day, gentlemen,” Bard greeted them, putting the last of the papers he had been sorting in a drawer and pretending he had not heard Maedhros’ comment. “What can I do for you?”

“I need a new collar for my cat, the rascal managed to get rid of it,” Fingon said, then smiled as he sent Maedhros a glance. “And my friend here would be much interested in adopting one, as well.”

“Wha—”

“I know you do,” Fingon insisted, then walked back to the shop before Maedhros could protest. Bard took his chance; he gestured to the hallway leading to the cats' room, and, if a little reluctantly, his visitor followed him.

“I just mentioned it _once_ ,” Maedhros grumbled under his breath, which got a small laugh out of Bard; he wasn't unused to such a turn of events, and found them always amusing to witness.

Bain was just stepping out of the room when they reached it, holding bags of used litter.

“We've got a client out front,” Bard told him once salutations were exchanged. “Can you help him find what he wants?”

“Sure, da,” Bain said, and after a polite nod of his head to Maedhros, walked away.

Bard opened the door for Maedhros, and he proceeded to introduce some of the cats to the old man, asking if he had any preferences and putting affectionate felines into his arms, even though he knew well which one his visitor would pick. Though Maedhros didn't seem to like it at first, he softened faster than he would probably care to admit.

Bard leaned against one of the handmade cat trees, and watched as the elderly man went from cat to cat, sometimes making comments about their looks, or asking about their stories.

After half an hour, Fingon peaked his head in, saying Bain was going to show him some of the new dogs they had found over the past two months since his last visit, and that he would be waiting for Maedhros at the reception once they would be done.

Bard guessed it wouldn't take much longer; Maedhros was finally giving his full attention to his favourite cat, one of the older ones Bard sheltered. Bard couldn't remember a single time when the old man had visited without ending up with that specific cat on his lap or in his arms. 

“Elrond told me you've been upset, since Thranduil left,” Maedhros said without warning, as he petted the calico cat he was holding against his chest. Bard frowned in surprise; why would Elrond tell his father of this, when he had no reason to?

“I do miss him,” Bard replied, then swallowed, feeling quite uneasy by such a subject being brought up by someone he didn't know very well. “He's a good friend of mine.”

A quiet laugh escaped Maedhros as he slowly shook his head.

“Thranduil isn't one to leave a comfortable life for futilities,” he said. “Elrond is his 'friend', and he wouldn't have gone if something had happened between them. He changed, since he met you. I'm no idiot.”

Bard was speechless; he just stared at Maedhros, blinking slowly, no words coming out of his mouth.

“Don't look so shocked,” Maedhros added. “I can recognize soulmates when I see them.”

Bard slowly turned away his own gaze from Maedhros' eyes.

“We were not soulmates,” he said through gritted teeth, though his heart beat hard against his chest at the simple notion of the bond Thranduil and himself had been so close to sharing.

“Not yet.” How fast Maedhros replied made him start, meet his gaze once again. Bard found in it an understanding he hadn't expected to see, and that he couldn't quite put into words.

“You know Thranduil?” Bard asked as his fingers scratched under a young cat's ear, not finding it in himself to deny the old man's words.

Maedhros nodded.

“He was in the same university as Elrond, and often he came over to our house to study,” he explained. “It is there that he met his wife for the first time. She was the daughter of a good friend of our family.”

“What was he like?” Bard asked, before he could stop himself. He knew already the story of how Thranduil and Lhaewel had met, but never did he have the occasion to know more about a Thranduil who had been different back then.

“Hardworking, reserved. He wasn't one for talking when it wasn't necessary. He was there for studying, and Thranduil is determined,” Maedhros told, his hand slowly stroking Eludir’s fur, but his eyes were fixed right on Bard's. “He changed, when he met her. He opened himself up, showed parts of him I'd dare to say not many had seen before.”

Maedhros was silent for a short moment, appearing lost in thought, his eyes now staring at the animal in his arms. Bard waited, almost fearing that his own breathing would disturb him.

“I thought the last time I'd see him was when he was sent to war,” Maedhros continued. “But in the end, it was at Lhaewel's funeral. I didn't hear of him for a long time after that, until he started exchanging letters with Elrond again.”

He looked up, and Bard was met with a gaze of such strength he thought he wouldn't be able to hold it for long.

“I don't know him as well as Elrond, or you, but this I can tell: her death changed a lot about him,” Maedhros said. “You certainly know why he left, but I believe there's more to it than you think. It's not all about you and your family's so-called safety.”

Bard weighed Maedhros' words; Elrond had told him more than Bard had believed, then, but it wasn't what caught his attention most. Putting the pieces together, it made sense: Thranduil was also protecting himself from potential loss, for it had broken him before, and upset his world.

“I'll take him, if you want to know,” Maedhros announced then, changing the subject drastically and getting Bard out of his thoughts.

A smile quickly spread across his face, and Bard nodded.

“Of course,” Bard replied. “I think he's been waiting for this for a long time.”

Bard led the way to the door, opening it for his visitor. He was glad, that Eludir was finally adopted, for it had been long since Maedhros had been interested—no matter how much he kept denying it—and even longer since the cat had been living in the shelter.

“Thank you,” Bard said. “About Thranduil. And for Eludir.”

Maedhros didn't reply, and just walked ahead, back to the reception where Fingon was waiting for him. His friend looked glad to see a cat in Maedhros' arms, and not surprised: it seemed he had bought a basket to carry the beast home, along with the collar for his own furry companion.

“Ah! I knew you wouldn't resist this time,” Fingon said gleefully, which gained him a roll of Maedhros' eyes.

“Shut it, Fin',” he grumbled in answer, but dumped the cat in his friend's arms with great carefulness and a smile tugging at the corner of his mouth nonetheless, before he followed Bard to his desk, to sign the usual papers.

Once everything was in order, Bard stood with Maedhros, and together they watched, amused, as Fingon distracted the cat in his basket. Maedhros turned to Bard then, and his expression became more serious as it showed some sort of softness; it was meant to give reassurance, but didn’t look much like it.

“He'll come back for you, boy,” Maedhros told him. His gaze shifted to Fingon, and for a moment, he said nothing. Bard didn't dare break the silence. There was a pain in those eyes, but it was no more than an everlasting shadow of old wounds even time couldn't heal. More than anything, there was relief, and something Bard recognized for what it was, for he had seen and felt it before. “That's what lovers do.”

Bard looked down to his hands, not knowing how he should react to what he was being told, and to what he was beginning to guess about the two men. But then, Maedhros' hand found his shoulder, and he felt forced to look up and meet the strength of his gaze.

“Thranduil is stubborn, but it takes too much for someone like him to allow what he's shared with you to give it up so easily, and—” Maedhros stopped there, taking his hand back. Instead, his fingers lingered on his own prosthesis as his eyes seemed to get lost in some distant memories, before he continued, “Soulmates don't let go of each other so easily.”

His eyes went back to Fingon, who had stopped playing with the cat to listen, and now lay his gaze on Maedhros, strange in its softness.

“In the end, he'll realize half-living isn't worth it,” Fingon added, his hand finding Maedhros' and giving it a squeeze.

Bard nodded, and cracked a small smile.

“Thank you, I appreciate it,” Bard said, extending his hand. He had no other words to answer the depth of their advice. Fingon shook it, then Maedhros. “Take care of Eludir.”

Then they left, leaving Bard feeling numb, but overall good; they had given him hope, when he had thought the little of it he had kept safe was all he had left to hang onto. 

It wouldn't stop Bard from scolding Elrond about telling Bard’s life to his father, though.

Over the course of the next month, Bard learned from Elrond himself that he had actually nothing to do with Maedhros and Fingon's visit. As it happened, he had just mentioned Bard when the subject of Thranduil's departure had been brought up, and they had figured out the rest by themselves, from what they had heard and seen from close and afar over the past few months.

Though it had been somewhat intrusive, Bard was thankful; their support, and the knowledge that what he and Thranduil had hoped to share wasn't just a fantasy, worked miracles for his mind.

It was true that he had felt better, quickly gotten himself together and went on with his life on his own, just like he had before. But what Maedhros and Fingon had given him was precious: they had given him a different kind of hope, one that wasn't grown from frail roots.

But there was something else, other than their words and personal experiences, that told Bard Thranduil hadn't given up on him, just like he hadn't given up on Thranduil: though the colours hadn't reappeared, they had stopped fading. It was like they were fixed in time, close to grey shades, but still there. Not moving, not changing; it was all he had needed to fully believe the old men.

There could be another reason entirely; maybe such a strong bond couldn't be broken by distance, and only death, but Bard liked to think it was simply because it hadn't truly ended that day. They were not done yet, and it would take a lot to convince him otherwise.

There was still an emptiness in his being, one that tore through him and made him doubt at night, or when faced alone to memories of good times lost, for words had power; but the mind had more. Bard fought against it, tried whenever it was needed to remind himself of what he had been told, and of what he believed. He thought of his children, looked at the pale shade of the colours, and stored all bad thoughts in a corner of his head, for a later time.

Father's Day was one of those bad days. At least, he thought it would be until he got out of his room and was met with Tilda standing before his door, a wide smile on her lips.

“Happy Father's Day!” she beamed, holding up her hand for Bard to take. “Come, come!”

Seeing the enthusiasm and gladness in his daughter's eyes made Bard forget all about the bad state he had woken up in, and it was with a grin that he took her hand, and let himself be led to the living room.

What he found there was a full breakfast spread out on the table, from eggs to toast and steaming coffee and in-season fruits. Bain and Sigrid, looking half-proud, half-sheepish, were standing next to the couch, a box at their feet.

A box, with holes.

Bard raised an eyebrow at this, for he guessed what kind of 'present' might be kept inside.

“I'm quite certain we said 'no gifts',” Bard pointed out, his tone severe, but his smile had barely faded.

“But you're the best da!” Sigrid protested, rushing to hug his waist and peer up at him, an all-teeth smile on her lips. Bard felt his heart swell, and he ruffled both his daughters' hair, getting Bain to roll his eyes.

“Come on, open it, da,” Bain said, as he got Tilda out of Bard's grip and kept her close so that she wouldn't open the box herself. As for Sigrid, she was hopping next to it, as excited as her sister, though she seemed to handle her enthusiasm just a tad better.

Having no reason to resist any more, Bard crouched to open the box after a quick, suspicious look at the children, which had them giggling.

Bard grinned at what he found inside: half-sleeping, a white cat looked up at him, and yawned. But it wasn't just any cat: it was Lyra, one of their most turbulent animals—when she wasn't drowsing, that is—that Bard had quickly grown fond of, for she reminded him of the first pet he had taken care of as a child.

“She can keep you company when we're at school,” Sigrid explained, waving her arms excitedly, then added in a quieter voice, “we don't like it when you're alone and sad.”

“And you don't even have to pass the test because we know you'll take care of her!” Tilda exclaimed, sounding as proud of him as Bard was of them; they shouldn't care so much about his well-being, but he was touched by their initiative, even if he felt a pinch to his heart, for he had thought he had hidden how his loneliness weighed on him well enough.

Bard picked up Lyra, and she snuggled against his chest, still drowsy from sleep. He had always said they wouldn't take in one of their sheltered animals, for all of them were a part of the family until they were adopted anyway, but Bard couldn't find it in himself to apply his own rule today. He did need some company outside of the working hours, there was no point in denying it.

“Thank you,” Bard said, laying a fond gaze on each of his children, which then turned teasing, as he gently put Lyra on the sofa. “But you'll have to take care of her too, right?”

The three of them nodded vigorously, and as Bard walked closer to them, he didn't miss the chance to give Bain's shoulder a playful punch, along with his most 'disapproving dad' gaze. Bain just shrugged it off, and returned his father's smile.

“You're spoiling me, darlings,” Bard whispered as his eyes lingered on the breakfast they had prepared for him. He brought them all closer and pulled them into a tight hug, before he kissed their foreheads. “I don't deserve you.”

His two girls shook their heads in disapprovement, and, as they held each other this way, Bard was reminded of how much everything he did, regardless of how hard days were sometimes, before and after Thranduil—all of it was worth it, for them.

As long as they were fine, he would be, too.

  


When the sixth month since Thranduil's departure came, Bard sat alone on the sofa, a steaming cup of tea in his hands. His eyes were fixed on the clock hanging to the wall; it read 12:20 A.M. The children had been put the bed long ago, and Bard hadn't waited long before retreating to the comfort of his own room.

Sleep had not found him, and he had just stared at the ceiling in the darkness, letting his thoughts wander. It had become clear he would not find rest soon, and so, he had risen.

In the kitchen he had boiled water and got a cup and some tea out of the cupboard, his eyes lingering for a second on the one Thranduil used to take, but had closed the door before nostalgia could cut him too deeply.

Bard blew on the steam coming from the hot liquid, and closed his eyes as he took a deep breath. Hopefully sleep would come more quickly with the tea’s help. He had thought himself relaxed, until now; with only his breath and the ticking of the clock to break the silence, he noticed the tension in his shoulders, the ache in his chest. Lyra and the children being asleep, there was nothing to distract his thoughts from going where he didn't want them to.

It had been a long time, since he had last allowed himself to drown under the weight of it all.

Sitting here on his own with only an empty space next to him did nothing but remind Bard of who used to share his company and his tea. Bard wished that, were he to extend his hand, it would find Thranduil's; that, were he to look up, he would meet unreadable grey-blue eyes that he'd decrypt, just to cherish the special lights they held only for him.

But there was no one, not really; just a ghost on a worn-out couch.

Bard drank his tea slowly as he tried to put order in his mind, too busy for an hour like this.

He shook his head, framed it between his hands once the cup was set aside on the coffee table. He took a deep breath, then exhaled; it came out shaky, as he rubbed at his eyes before any tears could fall.

Then, he stood, but didn't go back to bed; he didn't feel tired. At least, it wasn't the kind of exhaustion that would lead him to his room and under the safety of the sheets, which he found cold and uninviting all the same.

No, instead Bard walked down the stairs to the shelter, uncaring of the pajama shorts and shirt he was wearing; it wasn't as if the animals would care, and at the end of August, there was little cold in the air to bite his skin.

But Bard didn't even reach the animals; there was a loud knock against the door, quickly followed by the sharp sound of the bell.

Bard stopped dead in his tracks, and frowned; people coming to him at night about animals weren't rare, but they usually called before they did, if he wasn't the one coming to them.

He walked to it, not minding his rather miserable appearance; old pajamas, dark circles under his eyes, and messed up hair.

He opened the door, and when his eyes fell on the person waiting at the door, Bard's breath got caught in his throat.

Bard dug his nails into his palm, but he didn't wake up.

He blinked, but Thranduil still stood before him.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> The amazing creepyscientist made a wonderful fanart for this story! [Go check it out!](http://creepyscientist.tumblr.com/post/136269888916/lately-ive-been-ive-been-losing-sleep) :D
> 
> Also, you might have noticed that there's only two chapters left... all good (?) things must come to an end!
> 
> You have no idea how much your feedback means to me! <3
> 
> What would I do without my beta [Iza](http://archiveofourown.org/users/Piyo13/), I wonder.
> 
> Now, is Bard going to punch Thran in the face or not?


	16. Forgiveness

They faced each other without exchanging a single word.

Thranduil held himself tall and proud in his grey suit, as he always did, the light coming from the shelter illuminating his stone-cold face. However, his eyes didn't hold their usual strength; they were dull and tired, though there was something Bard couldn't put into words inside them.

Maybe it was hope, maybe it was relief. All Bard knew was that he could recognize some of his own pain in them.

And, they were blue. Blue as the day Thranduil had left, blue as Bard remembered them.

A lump was quick to form in Bard's throat, as his fingers trembled and his heart threatened to burst out of his chest. He felt his eyes fill with tears, but none fell.

He was frozen by what he was seeing through the blur obscuring his vision.

Bard wanted to reach out, make sure it wasn't a trick of his imagination, some kind of ghost out of his dreams come to haunt him. He wanted to kiss Thranduil, feel his taste on his lips, learn again all that he had forgotten about how their hands seemed to be made to hold each other, their skin made to touch and their bodies to share the same warmth.

But Bard didn't dare. He didn’t know if he was allowed to, after so long.

Six months. It had been six months, since they had last shared anything, since they had last seen each other, since the last time they had even exchanged words. The last thing he had expected was to find the man he loved so dearly standing at his door in the middle of the night.

He had been hoping, waiting for this since the first day Thranduil had gone, and now his mind was a mess; he didn't know what to think, what to say, or what to do.

Silence stretched, until it seemed Thranduil couldn't hold it any longer; he let show a broken smile. That made it all the more difficult for Bard to hold back tears, which threatened to turn into shaking sobs.

“I'm sorry,” Thranduil breathed at last.

Those words were like a bucket of cold water thrown at Bard’s face.

Bard punched. Right where Thranduil's heart was, with all his strength, he punched. Thranduil didn't flinch, didn't try to stop him, or to protect himself. A step back to steady himself was his only physical reaction. Even his expression didn't change, except for the vastness of the regret forming in his eyes.

Bard didn't see the rest of it; he took a step forward, looked down, and his fist came up to rest with a thump against Thranduil's chest again, soon joined by the other. It wasn’t a punch, but the contact was still solid and heavy. He could feel Thranduil's breath against his ear, see his hands hanging still by his sides as Bard hit, his own breath coming out in sharp exhales.

He thumped his fist against Thranduil again and again, until his body shook and until he felt as if his legs couldn't hold him anymore. Bard closed the small gap between them, his arms and clenched fists hunched against his own chest, and leaned against Thranduil.

Thranduil made the few steps needed to move them inside the shelter, then closed the door. His hands were gentle upon Bard's back. He murmured soft words of apology, and Bard could hear the regret in how his voice broke in a way Bard would have never thought possible coming from him.

His eyes shut, Bard listened to the beating of Thranduil's heart, calming down until his own found a steadier pace. It was strange, to feel his warmth again, to know Thranduil was truly here, in flesh and blood; that he wasn't a ghost that Bard couldn't touch and couldn't kiss.

When Bard looked up after God only knew how long, wiping the tears that hadn’t fallen from his eyes, he was met with Thranduil staring right into his gaze; Thranduil’s eyes were still tired and sad, filled with apology and regret, but now hopeful as well. However, it was a shy hope, one that didn't take up much room and seemed ready to shatter at moment’s notice.

“Will you allow me?” Thranduil whispered, his fingers tracing the line of Bard's jaw, brushing his skin in soft, slow patterns.

Bard thought he shouldn't, that he should be mad and punch Thranduil in the face instead, but how could he when what he saw in Thranduil's gaze was enough regret to last a lifetime? How could he, when this is what he had wished for, all these months?

He nodded, before he could stop himself.

Thranduil's lips were warm and soft against his. The kiss was slow, more tender than any they had shared before. It was delicate, loving, and Bard kissed back in the same way, putting into it all his mixed emotions.

Bard moved his hands from his own chest to Thranduil's hips and as they drew away, Bard hid his face in the crook of Thranduil's neck, breathing in his scent; spring flowers and, strangely, coffee.

Bard didn't know for how long they stood there, saying nothing, only sharing warmth and breaths in the silence of the shelter.

“Couldn't you wait until morning?” was the first thing Bard asked, voice rough, when he took a step back and looked up to meet Thranduil's gaze. It was a poor attempt at humor, and Thranduil showed no reaction to it.

“No,” Thranduil replied, a flash of hurt in his eyes. “No, I couldn't.”

It stirred something inside of Bard, and his stomach twitched. He understood all too well; he wouldn't have been able to either. He was thankful for the hour, in some way, because it meant this was just about them. There was no one to interrupt them, and no one to hide from.

“Why did you come back,” Bard asked, then, his voice only a murmur. “Why now?”

Thranduil broke the contact of his fingers against the skin of Bard's neck to take hold of his hand. He brought it up, and kissed the knuckles before he stroke them with his thumb, and closed his other hand over it.

“Because I—” Thranduil inhaled deeply. He looked away for a second, as if searching for the right words, but when his eyes met Bard's once more, all hesitation was gone, and Bard held his breath. “I love you.”

Bard's fingers tightened around Thranduil's, his heart beating faster and a small smile creeping up on his face despite himself.

“I came back, because I love you,” Thranduil repeated, the words even more deep and confident. “I couldn't bear the thought of losing you, too, in a way or another. I hoped staying away would make it all fade, but in the end—in the end, it was the fading I feared most. I couldn't stay away any longer.”

With his free hand, Bard reached out to Thranduil's cheek. Their joined hands still between them, he went on his toes to catch Thranduil's lips with his own; right here and right now, he cared not for explanations, for it had been long since he had figured them out on his own. But Thranduil's words were also a confirmation of what he had been told and believed, and Bard was glad he’d heard them.

“I hurt you,” Thranduil said between Bard's kisses. “I'm sorry.”

Bard shook his head. He wouldn't deny he had been hurt—it showed on his face and the way he hung so tightly on Thranduil's hands—but it would be selfish, to ignore that Thranduil had brought pain upon himself as well.

Putting his hand behind Thranduil's head, Bard pressed their foreheads together.

“Can you forgive me?” Thranduil asked, his voice barely a whisper.

Bard's hand brushed Thranduil's neck to come cupping his cheek. Thranduil leaned into the touch, though he didn't let the contact of their foreheads break. His shoulders seemed tensed, and his fingers trembled over Bard's hand. It was a faint shaking, that Bard could only feel because of how he craved Thranduil's touch and took comfort in it.

“I love you, too,” was Bard's whispered reply. It was enough of an answer, and he had never been more sure of anything over the past few months. He made sure it could be heard in his voice.

Thranduil kissed him back in earnest, his hands letting go of Bard, only to find his jaw. It was passionate, but gentle in its own way; speaking of relief and love and sorrow.

Bard understood why Thranduil had worried, but he shouldn't have. All he had done, he had done for them, and Bard couldn't blame him for that. Bilbo had been right, on the day Thranduil had left; it had been brave and selfless, for Thranduil had suffered from it as much as Bard had.

Bard believed it hadn't been the right thing to do, for there were other ways, but it hadn't been wrong and ill-intentioned either, and that was what he wished to remember.

He rested his head in the crook of Thranduil's neck for the few seconds that followed, until Thranduil's voice rose once more.

“Nice pajamas.”

Bard couldn't retain a chuckle as he pulled away to look upon Thranduil with a raised eyebrow.

“I've missed you,” Bard said instead, and Thranduil's gaze softened, his smirk turning into a small smile. “I'll go change. We've got to talk, but not here, I need some air.”

Bard dreaded letting go of Thranduil; he feared he would disappear once again. Slip through his fingers, never to return.

He let go, though, and felt the strength of Thranduil's gaze on him. It was comforting somehow, but not quite enough.

Bard hadn't thought turning his back to Thranduil would be so hard, but as he walked up the stairs, his heart beat faster; Bard found he felt as if he were in a hurry, and it was quickly that he got properly dressed, doing his best not to wake up his children.

He left a note on the dining table in case they woke up, saying he was out for a walk, and hurried back downstairs.

Bard sighed of relief when he found Thranduil right where he left him. It seemed he had regained most of his usual composure, but he wasn't closed off to Bard, like he had been on the morning he’d disappeared. His eyes weren't cold and distant, and there was a smile tugging at the corner of his mouth.

Together they left the shelter and walked down the street in silence. Bard was still processing Thranduil's presence beside him, but a quiet contentment had settled in his chest. The hole that had grown there was slowly being filled, and though many would have told him he was letting it happen too fast, Bard had faith; Thranduil wouldn't have come back if he didn't intend to stay.

“How have you been?” Thranduil asked then, his voice deep and cool in the quietness of the night.

“I've had good and bad days,” Bard replied. “It'll be better, now.”

Bard glanced at Thranduil; his eyes seemed far away, and only his nod indicated he had heard Bard's words.

“What about the children?” his next question was.

“It wasn't easy. Tilda had nightmares—but they're all alright now.” Bard didn't see the point in lying or omitting such things, not when the girls were likely to tell him themselves someday soon. “However, they've never quite stopped asking about you.”

Thranduil's gaze shifted back to him, and if Bard's words pained him, he didn't show much of it.

“I'll apologize to them, too,” he said, shaking his head. “I was a fool, to believe what I was doing was for the better. I've never been more wrong.”

“Please, stop this,” Bard said, putting his and on Thranduil's shoulder. “I understand. They might not, but someday they will. Trust me—they are not mad at you, nor do they see you any differently.”

“Legolas does,” Thranduil replied, and his tone was quieter. “He didn't talk to me for weeks.”

Bard's heart sank in his chest; as much as it hurt, it wasn't surprising. He had never dared imagine how their leaving had went that day, for it would have added more pain to an already deep wound.

“How is he now?”

“Better. I left him with his cat at Elrond's for the night,” Thranduil explained. “He acts as he always did but—I doubt he's forgiven me.”

“He will.”

They spent another few minutes in silence as they crossed the road in the direction of the park; it was empty of visitors at this hour, and was a good place to enjoy even fresher air.

“And you?” Bard asked when they sat on a bench, breathing in the cool air of the night. The freshness did him good, helping him to order his thoughts and better realize this was not just a dream.

It took some time for Thranduil to answer, but when he did, it was in the tone of one who still had many regrets to let go of.

“I doubt I've been any better than you,” he said. “But it didn't get better over time. It was a constant.”

Bard closed his eyes, heaving out a sigh. He couldn't imagine how Thranduil had had to blame himself over the months, and didn’t believe he deserved such a burden. He closed his arm around Thranduil's shoulder, trying to offer as much reassurance as he could outside the safety of their homes.

“What was it, that made you come back?”

Thranduil leaned more heavily against Bard's side, as if seeking contact and warmth, but drew away quickly, his eyes sweeping through their surroundings. He sighed as well, the tip of his fingers tracing absent patterns on his leg.

“Bard, I told you I—”

“I know,” Bard cut off softly. “But something must have happened, right?”

“It was the fear,” Thranduil said, “of losing you completely.”

“You feared the bond would break, yes,” Bard said. Thranduil had already told him all this, albeit more briefly, but he understood why Thranduil might need to repeat it again, and so Bard didn’t stop him.

Thranduil slowly nodded. “Yes. I feared to wake up and see the colours completely gone, because it meant I would feel you gone from... me. I would lose you, when that was what I had been running from.”

Thranduil turned to face him, and Bard had to resist the urge to take hold of his hand, for he understood all too well, and he wanted to offer the same comfort he had wished for himself, not so long ago.

“I didn't know what it would take to break it, and I didn't want to find out,” Thranduil continued. “In the end, I couldn't bear it anymore. Any of it. I needed to see you. But you're right, something happened.”

Bard waited for Thranduil to explain. An old woman walked past them, walking her dog; she waved at Bard, who returned a polite nod of his head.

Thranduil waited for her to disappear out of sight, to speak again. “It was Maedhros.”

Bard frowned, surprise showing on his face. Bard had thought there had been no way to know where Thranduil had gone, for he hadn't let anyone know of his destination. But then again, Bard hadn't tried to find him, in an attempt to respect Thranduil's decision. That was still one of the bravest, hardest things Bard had done. 

“I do not know how he found me,” Thranduil said. “It was impossible, or so I thought.”

Thranduil sent a glance around, then reached for Bard's hand; he only let his fingers brush the skin, but it was enough.

“I got a letter from him, a few days ago. He told me he had talked to you, amongst many things. It finished convincing me to come back,” Thranduil explained. “I don't fully understand why he would care about me—us, but does it matter?”

Bard shook his head, then smiled. “No, it doesn't, but I shall thank him anyway.”

Truth was that maybe he did know why Maedhros had acted as such. Not exactly, but he had heard bits and pieces of the stories of the first World War and the years that had come after it, and saw how he and Fingon acted around each other. Maybe Maedhros had seen something in them that had reminded him of his own story in some way, and he hadn't wished to let theirs turn the way his own almost had.

He could have been curious about the content of the letter, but there was nothing else Bard needed to know. All that mattered was what had resulted from it, and he would never be able to thank Maedhros enough.

“Let's go back,” Bard said, turning his hand so that he could entwin his fingers with Thranduil's, even for a few seconds. “You're tired, I am too, and there’s a long day ahead.”

Thranduil silently agreed, and Bard was content enough with the brushing of their shoulders as they walked back home. No living soul crossed their path, leaving the stars and the moon for them alone.

Thranduil sighed as he came to an halt before the shelter's door. He clasped his hands together and looked down to them, until his gaze went up and met Bard's.

Bard spoke up before he could say goodbye. “Sleep here. The bed is large enough for the both of us.” He didn't know if it was an unspoken fear of seeing Thranduil leave again, this time for good, or if it was just because he craved Thranduil's presence close to him that made him ask. But it didn't matter; the only thing that did was the way Thranduil's face lit up, as if this invitation was worth much more than it appeared.

They made their way upstairs in silence, and left their coats to hang by the door. Bard then gestured to his bedroom despite Thranduil's frown, but he followed without a sound a protest. Bard guessed he had as little energy to fight for the couch as Bard had, and they'd had this argument before; it was useless, and their relationship was beyond that.

“A cat?” Thranduil inquired in a hushed voice as they stepped inside Bard's room, an eyebrow raised; he was well aware of Bard's rule not to have 'his own' cat.

“This is Lyra,” Bard explained. “The children adopted her for me. They thought it would do me good.”

Thranduil nodded, and crouched to pet her. His hand was most welcomed, if the cat's purr and the way she bumped her head against his palm was anything to go by.

“I think she likes you,” Bard said, smiling upon them.

“Of course she does.”

Bard rolled his eyes, but he couldn't take off the smile off his face. Leaving Thranduil in Lyra's care, Bard sat on the bed to change, and was putting his prosthesis aside when Thranduil removed his clothes as well.

Bard had no night clothes to lend to Thranduil; he was too tall for Bard's night shirts or pants to fit, and, with the warmth they would share, it would be best not to wear any; though Bard's bed was large enough for them both, Thranduil's presence would still make it warmer.

Thranduil soon joined him under the sheets. There was an anxiety in Bard's chest that made his breath just slightly heavier; last time they’d shared this bed, it hadn't ended like it should have. Thranduil seemed to sense it; he pressed himself against Bard's back, bringing him into a strong, though gentle and comforting, embrace. Bard felt lips upon the skin of his shoulder, and he heaved out a sigh of contentment as Thranduil breathed against his neck.

“Thank you, for the house,” Thranduil murmured.

It took Bard a moment to recall what Thranduil talked about, and his lips formed a smile when he did. “I couldn't let it accumulate dust, when I learned it was still in your name. Besides, the children really love those swings.”

Thranduil laughed quietly, as Bard turned on his other side to face him and bury his head under Thranduil's chin. He left soft, chaste kisses there, upon his chest and his collarbone. He felt Thranduil put a kiss to the top of his head, and in that moment, Bard felt safe like he hadn't in months; he felt home, in a different, additional way than the one his small family had to offer. He had always been content with it, but this? He didn't know what he would do, were he to lose it all again.

“Don't you dare be anywhere else other than in this bed, when I wake up tomorrow,” Bard whispered, playing with a lock of Thranduil's hair, but his mind was already dozing away.

“I'll be right here,” Thranduil replied, his embrace growing tighter. It sounded like a promise, one that Bard chose to believe. It was like this that he let himself fall into sleep, feeling as if things were back right where they were supposed to be.

All he hoped for was that it wasn’t all just a dream.

It wasn’t.

When Bard woke up in the morning, there was a soft humming by his ear, fingers stroking circles upon his skin, and soft hair spread over his shoulder. That was what he noticed first. But as his eyes adjusted to the dim light, he saw it, too: how the colours of his room, that he had seen tainted dully for weeks, had regained some of their vividness. It wasn't much, but enough to be noticeable and send waves of joy through Bard's heart.

Bard rolled on his back, only to find Thranduil's eyes looking down at him. A smile spread on his face, tired but bright all the same. On his chest there were bruises from where Bard had hit him. Apologies were useless; Thranduil wouldn't accept them, and Bard didn't regret his outburst of emotion, even if he wished he’d avoided this.

“You're here,” Bard stated, his voice only a murmur.

Thranduil's answer was a kiss, which travelled from his mouth to his neck; shivers ran down his spine as Thranduil's lips worshipped his skin with care, holding him close.

“And you, too,” Bard added, laughing quietly, as he felt Lyra stretch beside him, and stroked the fur under her chin.

They snuggled there for a while longer, exchanging kisses and caresses that felt to Bard like salves for his soul; each pressing of lips against skin was closing an invisible wound, each finger lingering on the path of muscles and long forgotten scars was the promise of many more mornings like this to come. They would make up for lost time.

Eventually they rose, and Bard was the first to shower and get ready for the day. His heart beat faster in anticipation of the reunion that would take place soon enough, and he felt lighter than he had been in months; his life was back on the path he had long wished for it to take, and such a feeling gave him a most welcomed renewed energy.

Bard was feeding the cat when Bain entered the kitchen, followed closely by his sisters. They came to an halt under the threshold, staring at him with confused expressions painted over their faces. Tilda gaped, turning back to look towards the hallway leading to the bathroom, then back at him, her brow furrowed.

“Da, if you're here, who's in the bathroom?” Sigrid asked, peering up at him with big, curious eyes.

Bard took a deep breath, sending Bain a glance. The young man was looking at him with a raised eyebrow, arms crossed over his chest; Bard had no doubt he had already figured out for himself.

“I'll tell you, if you promise me not to run in, alright?” Bard said, gesturing them to go back in the living room, where he sat on the couch.

“Is it Mr. Thranduil?” Tilda exclaimed, her small hands hammering on his legs in excitement, and Sigrid's eyes widened.

“Maybe—” Bard replied, though the grin tugging at the corner of his mouth betrayed any chance he had of delaying the revelation.

“Oh, it is him, isn't it!” Sigrid cried, her lips forming a wide smile that threatened to take over her whole face.

“Does this mean you're going to be happy again?” Tilda asked as she clapped her hands.

“Oh, girls, I was happy already,” Bard told them as he reached out to tug a lock of hair behind Tilda's ear. It wasn't exactly a lie, for it would have been one to say his children didn't brighten each and every one of his days. “I had you, my darlings, and Lyra.”

“Yes, but Thranduil made you happy, too,” Sigrid protested, her chin up as if she needed him to take her seriously. Bard ruffled her hair, and chuckled at her scowl. “So now, you'll be happy _all the time_!”

“You're right, of course,” he said. There would be sad days, Thranduil or not, but Bard wanted to believe as much as his children did that there would be few of those.

As Bard said so, they all turned towards the hallway when the sound of a door closing was heard. As soon as Thranduil entered the room, dressed and flawless, the girls let out a squeal and rushed to him, crashing into his legs.

Thranduil's melodic laugh rose, one that added to the warmth inside Bard, for he had missed it maybe as much as its host, before Thranduil crouched to embrace them both. Bard sent Bain an interrogative look. He was watching in silence, though he was smiling, and sent back to his father a nod of his head, his expression turning unreadable.

When finally Thranduil stood again, he extended his hand to Bain. Bard thought it might take some more time for him to accept Thranduil's return, for his son had always been the least close to him of Bard’s children, but it didn't: Bain surprised them both by, instead of taking the hand Thranduil offered him, going forward. He briefly hugged Thranduil, though he didn't meet his gaze, and was quick to pull away.

“I'll go prepare tea,” Bain muttered before disappearing through the door.

“Where's Leggy?” Tilda asked then, enthusiasm filling her voice. She bounced up and down, and Bard had to stand and put his hands on her shoulders to calm her down.

“He's at Elrond's,” Thranduil replied, quickly getting himself back together. “Would you like us to pick him up?”

“Oh yes, please!” Tilda and Sigrid exclaimed in unison, clapping her hands and sending each other enthusiastic glances.

“Is it okay for you? I don't want to impose,” Bard was asked, and he nodded.

“We can go get breakfast at Bilbo's afterwards,” Bard offered, and such a proposition was met with more happy sounds from the girls.

The following hour was spent drinking tea and coffee on the couch. Tilda and Sigrid were eager to catch up with Thranduil, asking him many questions about where he and Legolas had been, what they had seen, and how Whisk' (as everyone now called him) was doing. As it happened, they had lived in a small town near the sea, in the first level of an apartment. Thranduil turned the story of how their cat had disappeared for three days into a dramatic adventure that got the girls holding their breath, and Bard had to stop from chuckling and ruining the atmosphere.

It all felt so very domestic, but, most of all, it felt as things had always been. Bard just hadn’t realized it before.

Lyra had settled on Bard's lap when, finally, Sigrid decided that they ought to get ready to go and see Legolas, and left the room with Tilda on her heels.

Thranduil went to sit next to him, close enough that their shoulders could touch.

Bain frowned, sticking out his tongue like a child when Thranduil leant forward to leave a kiss upon Bard's lips. Bard gently pushed him away, sending him an amused look, before he looked at his son again.

“Do you want to come too, Bain?”

Bain shook his head, putting his book aside. “Someone's gotta feed the cats and the dogs.”

“I can do it before leaving,” Bard pointed out. As much as this job was Bain's as much as it was his, he didn't like leaving Bain to work when he could do it himself.

“It's fine, da,” Bain insisted. “You don't want to make Legolas wait any longer, do you?”

“Fine, then,” Bard agreed. “Thank you, son.”

Bain only shrugged before going back to his book. Thranduil pulled his attention away from Lyra, whose fur he had been stroking, to entwine his fingers with Bard's. She meowed in protest when Bard shifted so he could put his other hand above Thranduil's, making the cat jump off his lap to go snuggle against Thranduil's side instead.

“Trait—”

Thranduil cut him off with another kiss, and as Bard laughed, he could see the pale green of the plant above the fireplace grow more vivid, and there was nothing quite like the warmth that spread inside him as a result.

 

Half an hour later, the four of them stood before Elrond's door. Sigrid and Tilda could barely stay in place, the latter insisting she wanted to ring the bell. Taking support on his good leg, Bard picked her up, and she beamed as she pressed the button. Bard was quick to put her back on the ground.

“I'm getting too old for this,” he muttered to Thranduil, who rolled his eyes.

The door opened on Elrond, who smiled upon seeing them.

“Welcome,” he greeted them. “Hello, miss Tilda, miss Sigrid, you look lovely today. Please, come in.”

The girls thanked him, beaming at his words, before they ran off to where they knew Legolas should be; cries of joy were quick to be heard, and Bard and Thranduil exchanged a fond look. Bard didn't need to see them to know the scene taking place in the living room had to be a heartwarming one.

It quieted though, and hurried footsteps came within earshot, growing louder with each second. As expected, Legolas appeared in the threshold, coming to an halt when his eyes fell upon Bard. The biggest grin Bard had ever seen upon the child's face lit up the whole place, and with a new cry, he started running again.

“Leggy!” Bard called—ignoring Thranduil's huff and Elrond's quiet laugh—and crouched down as fast as possible so he could catch the boy in his arms.

“Bard!” Legolas exclaimed as he crashed into Bard's chest.

Bard was hugged with all the strength of Legolas' small arms, and if he hadn't made to stand, Bard had no doubt Legolas would have kept him there for much longer.

Legolas took his hand then, and lead him to the living room where the girls were already playing with Elrond's dog and children. Bard looked back, to send Elrond an apologetic look; he hadn't meant for them to intrude.

A familiar flash of fur passed by them, surely hoping to get away from the sudden amount of people in the room, but Legolas caught it before it could run any further.

“Look, Bard, Whisk' is happy to see you, too!” Legolas beamed, proudly holding up the cat who, if Bard had to be quite honest, looked more done with being carried around than anything else.

“Hello, Whisk',” Bard said, taking the cat from Legolas' hands. He was met with a loud purr and a paw on his mouth, which made the boy giggle.

Legolas spent some more time by his side, telling him about—or so it seemed—pretty much everything that came to his mind. Bard listened, though he still absently paid attention to Elrond and Thranduil's conversation.

“—and then, Whisk' ate all the chicken!” Legolas concluded, peering up at Bard proudly. “I'm gonna play with the others now, I love you!”

And to these words he ran back to the other children, unaware of the smile that grew on Bard's face. Bard turned then, to see Thranduil looking at him with those eyes that said more than could ever be spoken.

“He hasn't been this happy in a long time,” Thranduil said as they looked away to watch the children play together, their laughter resonating around the room. There was sadness in his voice, but much to Bard’s joy, relief overtook it.

“It is good, that you came back,” Elrond replied. “Be careful, keep your love for behind safe walls, and you and your family will be alright.”

Bard exchanged a glance with Thranduil, and couldn’t stop the side of his mouth from quirking up at the sight of a soft grey blush at the tip of Thranduil’s ear.

“I know,” Thranduil sighed. “If luck stays on our side, we will be.”

“Besides, we would lie for you.”

“What?” Bard said.

“Me, Celebrian, my father, Bilbo, even Thorin. We would lie for you, if anything were to happen.”

Bard blinked, processing what Elrond was telling them. It was obvious, of course; Bard had done the same for Bilbo and Thorin. But this was different, for Elrond's family was respected and it was likely people would believe his words. As the town's doctor, he was trusted more than anyone else.

Bard didn't know why he hadn't thought of it sooner. It made sense, and was a pledge that there was little chance they would ever be unsafe, were they discovered. They were lucky, to live here and have such good relations. Sometimes, it was enough to make a difference.

“I know,” Thranduil said once more, which got him a frown from Bard; if he was aware of that, why taking such dispositions to stay away? “I didn't realize until I was away that there were ways out I had refused to see. I just couldn't accept the help that had always been there for us. I thought it was something we had to deal with on our own, that we should keep our troubles for ourselves. I was mistaken, of course, and it took me far too long to understand it.”

Bard's hand found Thranduil's lower back, offering silent comfort.

“Let's not dwell on what's behind us,” Bard said, “but rather keep on living.”

Thranduil leant against him in answer, seeking his touch, and it wasn't long until Bard decided, with Thranduil's approval, that it was time to go. Thanking Elrond for his support and help, Bard left the house feeling even lighter than he had been since he had fallen asleep with Thranduil by his side. If Thranduil's smile was any indication, he was filled with hope, as well; a new hope, different and stronger, for its foundations were solid.

The people they crossed paths with seemed surprised to see Thranduil walking with Bard and his children as if he had never been gone. Those he had treated as a doctor stopped to exchange formalities, which Thranduil returned politely, though Bard knew him enough to say he was annoyed by the attention he was getting.

It was with a sigh of relief that Thranduil opened the door of Bilbo's bakery, only to be greeted with a gasp of surprise.

“Good morning, Bilbo,” Thranduil said, and Bard could do nothing but grin at the astounded face the baker was making.

“If I were tall enough, believe me when I say I would slap you,” Bilbo said when he finally got himself back together, waving his finger at Thranduil under the children's giggles. Bard himself couldn't hold back his laugh, and Thranduil glared, though there was no heat in his gaze.

“We'll just have a few pastries, Bilbo,” Bard said in hopes it would get the baker's attention away from Thranduil—though really, he was quite enjoying all this.

Bilbo sent another glare in Thranduil's direction, before he waved at the still-laughing children.

“Good morning, you all,” he said cheerfully. “What would make you happy, mmh?”

As Tilda, Sigrid and Legolas listed their favourite pastries, Bard sent Thranduil a reassuring look. Thranduil wasn't one to care about such things, and most certainly didn't need reassurance, but Bard couldn't help himself; he didn't want Thranduil to feel any more badly than he already did, even more so when Bard knew Bilbo's opinion was different than the one he was showing. It had been clear when he had told Bard of why he thought Thranduil had acted the way he had.

They left the bakery with enough to eat for the rest of the day, as well as some pastries for Bain, and an invitation to dinner with the children, whenever Thorin would be available so that he could bring his nephews with him.

They decided on going to Thranduil's house to help him unpack, with the promise that the children could play on the swings while the adults would be working. Bard insisted they stopped by the shelter first; he wished to have a look at the animals himself and, as it was Sunday, there was no reason for Bain to stay there all day, unless he wanted to.

Bain and Legolas’ reunion was as heartwarming as the others had been, and Legolas wouldn’t let go of Bain and Bard’s hand on the way to his home. It was as curious as it was reassuring, to see how things clicked back together so fast. 

When at last they reached the house and authorized Bain to accompany Sigrid, Tilda and Legolas in the backyard, Bard turned to press a kiss to Thranduil's lips without a word of warning.

“Come,” Bard said, holding out his hand for Thranduil to take. “There is something I have to show you.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Check out [this super cute art](http://themirkyking.tumblr.com/post/136973381727/barduil-fic-rec-days-for-breathingbarduil-so-when) by the lovely [TheMirkyKing](http://archiveofourown.org/users/TheMirkyKing/) :D
> 
> The next chapter will be the last one, and I don't know if I'm happy or sad about it... I just hope it'll meet your expectations! (as much as I hope this chapter was okay, with Thranduil's return and everything. *sighs*)
> 
> (Basically Maedhros' letter was saying this (and I quote my friend and amazing beta [Iza](http://archiveofourown.org/users/Piyo13/) here): "listen up you little PUNK, i had to go through being a POW for 27 fucking months before my true love came back and then we almost didn't get together anyways now whAT IS YOUR BLOODY EXCUSE")


	17. Those Colours We Share

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> “I will be brave  
> I will not let anything take away  
> What’s standing in front of me  
>  _Every breath_  
>  _Every hour has come to this”_

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This is when the story earns its 'M' rating, as mentioned in the tags!

“Ada, can I say goodbye to the kittens before we go?”

Thranduil looked up from the laces of his shoes to find Legolas standing before him, hugging his deer plushie close to his chest and watching him with big, hopeful blue eyes.

It had been a month now since they had settled back home; put their clothes back in the wardrobes, new sheets on the beds, and tableware and cutlery in the cupboards.

Thranduil's relief had been immense (though it had been unsettling, too) when Bard had welcomed him back into his life much faster than he had dared to hope. Thranduil had been so full of regret that he had forgotten what he had always known: that Bard loved and understood him, and would never have sent him away, at least not forever.

Bard had had every right to be angry, and yet he hadn't let it dictate his actions for too long. Thranduil admired all that about him, for had the roles been reversed, he wouldn't have been so forgiving. Or so he thought at first, but the more he re-played the scenario in his head, the more he couldn't bring himself to believe he would have been able to be mad at Bard for long, either.

He wouldn't have let anyone else alive get away with something like that, but he had fallen way too hard. Thranduil shook his head at the thought, and smiled to himself. Legolas, however, had taken much longer to forgive his father, but their return in town had helped, and Thranduil was determined not to disappoint his son again.

“Is it a yes, or a no?” Legolas asked with a raised eyebrow, snapping him back to the present.

“A yes, of course,” he said, his expression apologetic. “Do you know where they are?”

As he said so, a ball of red fur ran between them, jumped on the large couch, its little tail fuzzy and lashing, right before another one—striped—joined it and threw itself at the other's neck. Legolas laughed, beaming at a sight he didn't seem to ever get tired of.

“Here they are,” Thranduil said, rolling his eyes.

He looked away to see their mother enter the room, followed by two other kittens, and on the armchair, Mr. Whiskerson hid his eyes under his tail, as if worried his drowsing would be disturbed.

On the day Thranduil had come back to his home, Bard had taken his hand and told him to follow, as there was something Thranduil had to see. He remembered fondly how Bard had led him to the bedroom, and pointed to something under the covers.

“I don't know how she got in, maybe I forgot to close a window,” Bard had said, “but they’re here, now.”

Thranduil had raised an eyebrow, and asked of whom Bard was talking about.

“See for yourself,” he had replied, and there had been a soft smile on his lips.

Sending Bard a skeptical look, Thranduil had gotten closer nonetheless, and as he had done so, he could hear hushed meows coming from the bed. He had frowned, and reached out for the sheets; under it he had found a cat and four kittens, barely older than a few days.

“Why aren't they scared?” Thranduil had asked as he had extended his hand to stroke the fur under the mother's chin.

“She's been abandoned, and not long ago, I think,” Bard had said, and he had looked sorry. “She came to give birth downstairs, and then she moved the little ones here. I thought it would be better to leave them here until they're stronger.”

“Life in a dead place,” Thranduil had murmured.

Bard had nodded. “It is what I thought, and I took it as a sign,” Bard had said, then grinned. “I didn't know of what, but I was right.”

They’d been silent as Thranduil pet the cat, and admired the kittens. He’d cried, then, and hadn't known if his tears had been of joy or sorrow. Maybe it had been both. Bard had crouched behind him and embraced him, and softly asked what he wanted to do.

“I'll keep them,” Thranduil had said without much thought, and he had felt Bard's smile against his neck.

Today Thranduil had to put up with four energetic kittens, but he was glad of their presence. They were a good distraction, loved to sleep with him on his bed, and Legolas never stopped being delighted by their company. If anyone had told Thranduil he would one day have not one, but _six_ cats, he would not have believed them, and called them mad.

“Goodbye Gabs, Iris, Liam, Eli!” Legolas said, taking each of them into his arms for only a second. “Goodbye Whisk', goodbye Sera!” And to this he ran to the hallway to get his coat.

Thranduil followed after patting Whisk's head, and soon enough they were out in the fresh air. October had just come, and with it colder weather, though it was still kind.

Legolas hopped by Thranduil's side, holding his hand and reciting everything he would do with Bard's children at the shelter while Thranduil and Bard would be gone for the day. Thranduil himself didn't know what he and Bard were going to do; just enjoy each other's company, surely, and stop at Bilbo's for sandwiches.

Thranduil almost forgot the colours were there, for it wasn't worth it to admire them without the one he was meant to share them with. But he had to, when Legolas asked if the colours of the leaves had changed yet.

They had sat all the children, apart from Bain, down around the table of Thranduil's living room three weeks earlier, and told them about the bond. “We should not keep secrets from them, now that we're here to stay,” Bard had told him, and Thranduil had agreed. The news had been welcomed with the usual enthusiasm of young children, and they had promised not to breathe a word of it to their friends. It had gone well, but now Legolas regularly inquired about whether or not Thranduil could see Bard in colours yet.

The answer was always no, though Thranduil could feel the bond growing stronger with each passing day, now that it had been restored. It was an unsettling feeling, but unique, and Thranduil loved its progression as much as he wished to see its end. He was eager to feel the bond completed once more, though he knew it would be different than it had once been, long ago.

“Can we get a dog, too?” Legolas asked as they left the border of the forest.

“We already have six cats,” Thranduil said, shaking his head. Even knowing the house and its surroundings were big enough to host so many companions, saying it out loud made it somehow all the more ridiculous. “No dog, son.”

Legolas pouted for the rest of the walk, though he didn't let go of his father's hand until Thranduil had to open the shelter's door with the key Bard had made for him.

As soon as the door closed Bard appeared before him, taking his hand and bringing it up between them to kiss it, and soon enough his lips were pressed against Thranduil's, eliciting a 'yuck' from Legolas.

“You're gross,” he said before Bard broke the kiss to ruffle the boy's hair, who crossed his small arms over his chest and peered up at them with a frown of disgust.

“Good morning to you too, Legolas,” Bard said. “I heard Bain came up with a new game for today.”

“Really? Awesome!” Legolas exclaimed, a smile replacing his frown, and he didn't wait any longer before he ran upstairs.

Bard laughed quietly. Thranduil watched in silence, his gaze lingering over Bard's face and body. He looked less tired than he had been a month earlier; his eyes were more alive, the bags under them had disappeared, and the weariness in his movements had gone.

Thranduil noticed then that Bard was using his crutch today, and his heart clenched; he hated to see him in any kind of pain.

“At least we know it's going to rain,” Bard explained with a shrug, before he kissed the corner of Thranduil's mouth and gently squeezed his shoulder. “Come on, the girls want you to say hello before we go.”

Thranduil followed Bard upstairs, where Legolas had already found his place on the couch. Thranduil was welcomed warmly by the children (and Lyra, who came to rub at his legs until he picked her up), and he found a spot beside them while Bard gave Bain his last instructions and got his coat.

“We'll be back tonight,” Bard said once he was ready, gesturing for Thranduil to stand up and join him by the door. “No funny business!”

A united 'yes da don't worry da' rose before he closed the door. Bard sent Thranduil an amused glance, and off they went.

Hands clasped behind their backs, they walked side by side to the bakery, politely saluting whoever crossed their path. Many times through moments like these, they didn't talk, for there was much they didn't need to voice. Ever since the colours' return, painting their lives back in bright tones, they liked to wonder at them in silence, and a brush of shoulders or a smile said enough.

“'No funny business'?” Thranduil asked as they crossed a street.

Bard shook with another quiet laugh. “I caught Tilda painting the dogs' nails in blue yesterday,” he explained. “I'm pretty sure Kíli gave her the idea.”

Thranduil rolled his eyes; it wouldn't surprise him in any way. Their dinner at Bilbo's had gone well, but it had been long since the girls had last seen Thorin's nephews, and they had made quite an impression on Tilda and Sigrid, who had insisted on inviting them over a few times since then.

They stopped at the bakery and bought sandwiches, for they didn't know where their walk would take them. They were greeted warmly, as they always were, and offered extra pastries on the house.

Bard proposed they went to the clearing further behind Thranduil's grounds, where the children had built a snowman all those months ago; there they could sit on a trunk, and maybe in this secluded place, even if it wasn't the hour, they would see deer like they once had on an early walk. 

There they went, and there they stayed, eating and talking until they fell into silence at the sight of not a deer, but a fox, who peered up at them from the other side of the clearing. Only when it ran away did Thranduil say they should go back, before the water fell from the skies, as they had turned more grey.

But then the wind howled with increasing strength through the trees, and one by one droplets met Thranduil's skin, which grew in number with each passing minute. Soon Thranduil walked faster, muttering under his breath.

“We might not get home before the storm starts,” Thranduil said. “We'd better stop at my house and wait for it to pass.”

Bard nodded, rubbing his own arm with his hand, as if trying to get rid of the cold the rain and the wind had brought with them. “Let's go, then.”

They weren't far from Thranduil's home when the rain grew heavier.

“Told you it would be raining,” Bard said, as water kept pouring down on them through the branches.

“Exactly, not _storming_ ,” Thranduil retorted, adjusting his pace to Bard's. “We should have taken an umbrella, and better shoes.”

“Afraid to slip, Thran?” Bard teased; Thranduil had once complained about how rain made the forest's paths muddy and slippery.

“If anyone would slip, Bard, it's you,” Thranduil snapped back, though his tone held nothing cold, and he could hear Bard's laugh, feel his shoulder brushing his.

They managed to reach Thranduil's house before the clothes under their coats got wet. Thranduil asked Bard to take off his shoes before getting too far into the hallway, and then went upstairs to get towels to dry their hair. On his bed, most of the cats were asleep.

Once they were warmed up, Thranduil tried to watch the skies through the kitchen windows, but already the rain was pouring against it with too much intensity to let anything from the outside be seen; it was as if they had been cut off from the rest of the world, left alone in the small haven of peace that was Thranduil's home.

“We escaped one big shower,” Bard stated, leaning against Thranduil's side and putting an arm around his waist.

“It looks like it's going to last a while,” Thranduil said. “We should call the children.”

“Yes. I'll do it.”

Bard kissed Thranduil's cheek before he left the room, leaving Thranduil to prepare tea.

Thranduil could hear Bard from where he stood; as usual he was struggling with using the phone properly. Often Thranduil had teased him about it, but it had never been unkind. In the end, Bard always managed to make his call.

“—alright, but don't forget to prepare lunch for Legolas, as well,” Bard was saying. “And don't let them be late for school.”

There was the sound of the phone being hung up, and then footsteps. Thranduil put some honey in each of the cups, and turned just in time to see Bard stepping in the kitchen.

“Bain insisted we stay here and sleep in,” Bard explained as he leaned against the threshold. “I thought you wouldn't mind.”

“You were right, I don't,” Thranduil said, and handed Bard his cup. “It’ll be good for us to have some more time for ourselves.”

Bard nodded, before carefully sipping his tea. Outside the storm had made the sky dark, and the rain was still pouring hard against the windows, and if it hadn't been for Bard and the lights, he would have hated it. His eyes fell on the crutch in Bard's hand, and Thranduil frowned; maybe he still hated the rain, the more he thought about it.

“How's your leg?” Thranduil asked.

“Still hurts, but nothing I can't handle,” Bard said with a wince, which turned into a soft smile when Thranduil sighed.

Putting his cup on the kitchen table, Bard approached him, and, ever so gently, got close enough to rest his hand on Thranduil's lower back, and kissed him. Thranduil shivered as he kissed back, his own hand framing Bard's cheek.

Bard let go to take back his cup, and gestured for Thranduil to go back in the living room, where they sat on the couch. With one leg under him, Thranduil could face Bard and let his fingers linger on Bard's hand.

There they read and talked, until time and the storm made the room too dark to see. Thranduil rose then, to light up the candles above the fireplace, and the lamp on the side table. He stroked the fur of Whisk's back, who was sleeping on his armchair, and felt the comforting weight of Bard's eyes on him. He was met back on the sofa with a kiss, and Bard snuggling against his chest, as though seeking his warmth.

Bard's hand trailed over his leg, his breathing steady but his fingers almost trembling. Thranduil took his hand in his; he kissed the knuckles there, and Bard smiled up to him.

“Time flies,” Bard said then as he looked down to his pocket watch, “but it is still early.”

Thranduil only hummed, and continued to let his fingers linger on Bard’s until his eyes shifted up to see Bard staring into space.

“Are you bored, or does something trouble you?” Thranduil asked.

“No, everything’s alright,” Bard said. “It couldn’t be more alright.”

“Even if I kiss you?” Thranduil replied, the tug of a smirk forming at the corner of his mouth.

“I wouldn’t mind,” Bard said, shrugging in mock disinterest.

And so Thranduil kissed him, and Bard's hands quickly framed his face. He shifted so that their bodies would face each other, and pressed them together.

Thranduil smiled through the kiss, shivering when Bard's fingers left his face to wander along his sides, down to his lower back once more. For a while kissing and caressing was all they did; lips on warm skin and hands searching and learning, making sighs of contentment leave their mouths.

Safe; this is how Thranduil felt. With the sound of the rain, the shy light of lamp and candles, the familiar scent of his home away from prying eyes, and Bard by his side, close and warm and loving, how could he not feel safe?

With time Bard grew bolder, just like he had over the past weeks; Thranduil had noticed how Bard tried new, different kinds of attention: lower kisses to Thranduil's collarbone, teeth added to said kisses, teasing fingers; but always they had been gentle, and unhurried, only testing and saying he would do nothing that Thranduil didn't want done.

Now breaths were turning harsher, kisses deeper and more passionate, and hands were going under clothes; never too far, but with their intentions clear enough to be understood.

“Is all this okay?” Bard asked then, and Thranduil could only nod and answer with a kiss and a small bite to Bard's lower lip. 

Thranduil didn't feel the way Bard did—he never had for anyone else either, for that matter—but each caress of Bard's fingers, each kiss sent electricity through his bones and down his back, and set a different kind of fire inside him, one he wanted to master. It was his choice, and it wasn't just for Bard that he was making it, but for himself as well.

What was the soul without the body, and the body without the soul, Thranduil thought, when a body without a soul is dead, and a soul without a body cannot wander.

After so long apart, there was one more thing Thranduil wished for: the only thing they didn't _have_ to share, but that he wanted all the same.

If he could have Bard's soul and Bard have his, then he would be happy. And if, on top of that, Bard wanted to give his body, to cherish and pleasure... then Thranduil wished to give his own, too.

“You should know,” Bard said between kisses upon jaw and neck that burned Thranduil's skin, “that I don't usually feel this. I thought it was only Mira, and then it was only you.”

“So you're saying what I already know,” Thranduil answered, “that I am special.”

Bard smiled, his eyes showing amusement. “That you are.”

The kisses resumed, and Thranduil surrendered to them as slowly, his fingers fumbled with the buttons of Bard's shirt.

Bard laughed quietly, and Thranduil's brows furrowed.

“What's so funny?” he asked.

Bard chuckled more against the skin of Thranduil's neck, and his own fingers found the tie at its base and got it off, and soon Thranduil’s shirt and jacket were on the ground.

“If you're struggling with the buttons—” His chuckling continued, and Thranduil chose to ignore him.

Outside the rain hadn’t stopped, but it had quieted; left was a soft background noise along with the howling of the wind. 

Thranduil didn't ask further, and finished getting rid of Bard's upper clothes, revealing his chest; Thranduil had seen and embraced it before, but now he could see the small scar under his collarbone, without doubt a memory from the war.

Thranduil didn't linger there, after he put Bard's necklace on the coffee table; he was quickly distracted by Bard's hands exploring his skin, lingering on the path of muscles until they found his hips and brought him closer.

Pulling away after another exchange of soft, though passionate, kisses, he took off Bard's pants, struggling to get them past the prosthetic leg. This is what Bard had meant then, Thranduil thought, and getting off the prosthesis itself wasn't any easier; not in his haste.

He noticed then that Bard's body trembled, even though Thranduil wasn't touching him. He looked up with a raised eyebrow once he had put the prosthesis aside, only to find Bard peering down at him, biting his lower lip as if to stop himself from breaking into laughter.

“What?” Thranduil asked flatly.

Bard looked upon him a moment longer, until he burst out, “You just took off my leg!” and his laugh resonated once again. Thranduil rolled his eyes, though he smiled; many wouldn't have found it amusing, but it _was_ kind of funny.

“I don't want to hit my knee against it, and that thing is heavy,” Thranduil said. “It'll make things easier.”

It only made Bard laugh more.

Thranduil shut him off with a kiss, and pushed him against the back of the couch before he claimed Bard's neck with his lips. That was what made Bard stop laughing, the sounds coming from his mouth becoming very different the more Thranduil lowered kisses to his belly.

Thranduil went up again, and made Bard lay on the couch before he got rid of his own pants. There he mapped Bard's skin with kisses, learning all there was to know about it. He caressed and admired and kissed, for what never seemed to be long enough. Always he kept one of Bard's hands in his, letting the other clench on the side of the couch.

“We should get oil,” Bard told him softly, when his breath said he could barely wait any longer.

Nodding, Thranduil rose, and came back with lube and protection. One of the perks of being a doctor, he supposed; he had to be ready for everything.

Thranduil set them down on the ground, and didn't wait much longer to take off Bard's underwear. He didn't care much about what was there; instead he kissed the corner of Bard's mouth, and closed his eyes for a short moment.

“How do you want this?” Bard murmured to his ear.

“I want all of you,” was Thranduil's answer, determined and filled with a desire that seemed to fuel what Bard did next: he nodded, tugging a lock of hair behind Thranduil's ear, and straightened up until he was sat, to push Thranduil down on his back and get rid of his underwear.

“Your couch is really large,” Bard stated. “It's ridiculous.”

“It's not,” Thranduil retorted, and it really wasn't as much as Bard seemed to think. “Yours is just not large enough for the both of us. But do you really want to talk about this now?”

Bard shook his head in answer, and he was still smiling when he leaned down to kiss him, making their teeth knock.

Thranduil watched as Bard grabbed the bottle, and poured some of the liquid on his hand. Outside the rain had picked up again, and the wind howled as Bard closed his hand on him and leaned down to catch Thranduil's quiet gasp with his lips. With each movement of his hand, Bard left a kiss upon Thranduil’s skin; he seemed to wish to learn every inch of Thranduil's body, know all its secrets, from everything that pleased him to everything he disliked, and everything he did, he did with love and care.

And oh, how Thranduil wished to do the same again. Earlier had barely been enough.

Bard took his time to prepare him, using the oil when it was needed. He was careful and gentle, slowing his movements when Thranduil showed any discomfort, stopping from time to time to kiss his lips, forehead, or cheek. Always he kept the fingers of his left hand entwined with Thranduil's, as an anchor nothing could break.

“Bard,” Thranduil said when he couldn't take it anymore. He was surprised by how controlled his voice sounded, and the name this way spoken was as much of a warning as it was a question.

“I know,” Bard replied, and kissed his hip. “I just want to make sure—”

“It is fine now. No more teasing,” Thranduil insisted. “Come up here.”

Bard did, and Thranduil smirked when he took the opportunity to close his fingers around Bard, eliciting a new gasp and huff from him. Thranduil let go, let his fingers wander up, tracing his skin, and kissed his forehead.

“Fine, fine,” Bard said, his tone one of mock offendedness. He straightened up, looked around, and a frown appeared on his face. “Actually, you're right, maybe your couch isn't that large.”

Thranduil rolled his eyes.

“Maybe we should move this to the bedroom.”

“No,” Thranduil said, trying not to sound as impatient as he was feeling, and got himself out from under Bard to stand, “but, will you sit for me?”

Bard had rolled on his side to peer up at Thranduil curiously. He raised an eyebrow, and after a few seconds he seemed to realize what Thranduil was asking of him. Bard silently agreed, his smile telling he wanted this, too, and did as he was told. He extended his hand for Thranduil to take, and his hands caressed Thranduil's skin before their fingers were entwined together.

Thranduil sat and let go to reach for protection.

Once safe and ready, he smirked and made their bodies one, as slowly as it was needed. Thranduil couldn't stop the moan that escaped him (just as he guessed Bard hadn't been able to stop his own) as a strange mixture of pain and pleasure spread through him.

Bard's hands tightened their grip, and he stroked slow circle upon Thranduil’s hips.

Thranduil leaned forward to kiss him, pressing their chests together, and he smiled through it, for he could feel Bard's heart beat in rhythm with his own, fast but steady, and there was little he found more comforting than the knowledge of how close and alive they were.

"I love you," he breathed to Bard's ear, when after long enough he got more comfortable, and used to such a new sensation.

Thranduil felt Bard's smile against his cheek.

"And I, you," Bard replied, then his hands went up to frame Thranduil's face, and after gazing into his eyes for a moment that Thranduil didn't want to end, he left another kiss upon his lips. "But, if you're okay and ready, enough talking, now."

He lifted his hips up as soon as Thranduil gave a nod of his head, and Thranduil let out another moan as his body clenched around Bard, and his forehead came to rest against his.

Thranduil took it from there: he set up a slow pace at first, rising and lowering himself down, guiding the dance to Bard's breathing and noises of pleasure as much as his own. He couldn’t quite describe how he felt, but it had been long since he had last felt this overwhelmed, and never before had he felt bliss of this kind.

Bard's hands caressed his sides down to his cheeks, when they didn't come up to clench at Thranduil's hips, and he looked at him with awe and love in the hazel of his eyes.

“You're beautiful,” Bard murmured, and leaned forward to kiss him.

Forehead against forehead once more, soon he met Thranduil's rhythm, which grew faster, though always it was steady. However, it wasn't for much longer; Bard hit a spot that sent stars through Thranduil's vision, and freed a muffled groan from his lips. His hands gripped Bard's back and his embrace grew tighter until their chests were pressed together, closer than they had ever been.

Words of love were whispered in his ear, as Bard hid his face in the crook of Thranduil's neck; he felt breathing against his skin, warm and growing heavier by the second. Together they moved, though soon the rhythm of their lovemaking faltered; neither of them would last much longer, Thranduil could tell.

“Wait for me,” Bard said, kissing Thranduil's neck before he looked up; his forehead was sweaty, but his eyes were bright, and Thranduil could do nothing but stare into them until he felt the urge to kiss him once more.

This he did; Thranduil kissed his lips, and it was after another couple of thrusts and Bard's hand closing on him that Thranduil reached his climax, Bard following shortly behind.

Thranduil held onto Bard, the both of them smiling and catching their breaths, foreheads still resting together. When their exhales turned steady again, Thranduil eased Bard down on the couch. He was held in turn after Bard cleaned them with care, using his own shirt—the only thing they had at their disposition—to do so.

They exchanged lazy kisses which travelled from nose to jaw to neck, chaste and comforting. 

There they lay for a long while, and rested their bodies, tracing patterns on each other's skin as their eyes kept contact, bathing in the warmth they shared.

“I’m thirsty,” Bard said, and Thranduil smiled against his neck. “Are you?”

“A little,” Thranduil confessed. “Let me get you some water, then.”

Thranduil went to rise; he was still in discomfort, but it was nothing he could not handle.

When he came back with glasses of water, Bard had fallen asleep. He seemed at peace, but already he shivered from the loss of Thranduil's warmth. Putting the glasses on the coffee table for later, Thranduil retrieved a blanket that he draped over the both of them, once he was back half on top of his lover. He closed his arm around him, and lay his head on Bard's chest after leaving a kiss to his jaw. Soon enough, tired and content as he was, he fell into a deep sleep.

With the sun Thranduil woke. Half under him Bard was still sleeping. His chest rose and fell steadily, and his face was free of any pain. On the other side of Bard's neck, one of the kittens had found a place, and above his belly were two others, curled up together. Whisk' was still in his armchair, looking straight at them, and outside the rain had stopped.

It almost felt like a dream, but it was all real.

Thranduil didn't wish to rise and wake Bard in the process, and so there he stayed. He traced the length of Bard's arm with his fingers, studied the beauty spots that marked the skin, and left tired kisses upon his shoulder.

After what Thranduil guessed was half an hour, Bard's voice rose, drowsy from sleep. “'Morning,” he mumbled.

“Good morning,” Thranduil replied, and kissed his lips. “I'm sorry to tell you, but it seems you've been taken hostage.”

“Aye, I can feel that,” Bard said, and blinked a few times before he fully opened his eyes, only to hide his face in the fur of the kitten for a short moment. “Though I don't know if it's by you, or the cats.”

“Both, certainly,” Thranduil replied, a smirk playing on his face.

“How—oh, hey there!”

Reaching out Bard caught one of the kittens before she rolled to the floor. He spent some time petting her and her two siblings, smiling at their small faces. Even Thranduil couldn't deny they were quite adorable. All young animals were, he supposed.

“How are you feeling?” Bard asked.

“Fine,” Thranduil said. “Did you sleep well?” 

As he asked Thranduil’s eyes trailed to Bard’s prosthetic leg by the couch, and Bard’s gaze softened even more.

“Very well,” he said.

Thranduil smirked. “Care to have a bath with me?”

“I haven’t had one in ages,” Bard said, and smiled. “How could I say no?”

Given the hour, they had time for breakfast, Thranduil had concluded, and together they stood. They shared a bath, washing each other's hair and exchanging massages (Thranduil insisted on massaging Bard’s stump, even if little pain had lingered there), before they got dressed—Thranduil gave Bard one of his shirts, even though it was slightly too large for him—and went to the kitchen.

Toast and fruits were eaten, accompanied by their usual tea. Thranduil fed the cats, and with the all of them in the same room, he guessed they made quite a funny picture, and he wished the children were there to complete it.

 

Two weeks later saw Thranduil's wish granted. Bard and his children had slept over after dinner and an evening of games and music, and much like New Year's Eve so many months earlier, Bard had sung for them.

It hadn't been a simple dinner, though; Maedhros and Fingon had been invited, as well as Elrond and Celebrian—their children had been left with Maedhros' brother, Maglor—in thanks for their support and involvement in Thranduil's return.

Thranduil had apologized for taking so long to organize this evening; Fingon and Elrond had waved it away, but Maedhros had sent him one of those heavy glares that could not easily be read. But then he had shaken his head, and smiled, and Thranduil had understood there was nothing to be said, or to thank him for.

They had not lingered for the games and the songs, but still had seemed to enjoy their time there.

This Sunday morning saw their family gathered around the table of the living room, as the kitchen was too small for all of them, and Thranduil was glad for how his life had turned out. When he had come to this town, he never would have expected it to become this good, and so full colours.

Even the cats were by their sides, surely hoping food would be given to them—and Legolas' face was too innocent for him to have actually listened to his father's words about feeding their furry companions.

A little later Thranduil was cleaning and putting away the dishes with Bard, when Tilda entered the room, Sera in her arms, bearing her most serious expression.

“Da, can I ask you a question?” she said.

“Sure, darling, what is it?”

She seemed to think a little longer, her fingers stroking the cat's fur, before she straightened herself, and asked in a hushed tone of conspiration, “Are you and Thranduil going to get married?”

Bard exchanged an amused look with Thranduil, but it was sorry when he looked back down at his daughter.

“Tilda, we can't—”

“Can I choose your dress?” Tilda burst out, cutting him off. “Please, da!”

Bard laughed, and Thranduil couldn't restrain a fond, amused smile.

“Alright, but why would I be the one wearing the dress, love?” Bard asked, his tone of genuine curiosity.

“Because Thranduil wears suits much better than you do, of course,” she explained, lifting her chin up in defiance.

It was Thranduil's turn to laugh. “It's true,” he said, and Bard glared at him.

Tilda left the room then, claiming she had to bring Sera back to her kittens, and leaving Thranduil to kiss Bard's cheek with a promise that—if getting married was even possible—the both of them would wear suits, because he really didn't look as terrible as Tilda made it sound.

The rest of the day was spent by the fire, surrounded by gleeful children and excited kittens. As he often did, Bain read a book in Whisk's armchair—which, as always, resulted with the cat sleeping on his lap—while Legolas and Sigrid invented some new game to have with the kittens, though always they were careful with them.

As for Bard, he sat legs crossed on the couch behind Thranduil's back, trying to follow the braiding instructions Tilda was giving him.

It was simple, much different than the life Thranduil had known before he had come here, even before the war. It wasn't much. Yet it was still more than Thranduil had experienced in the years he had spent on his own with Legolas, after his wife's death, and there was nothing he would exchange it for.

Thranduil had missed those moments of peace, while he was away. They were good for his soul, and for his mind, and he wished there would be more times like this one to come. 

This day did look simple, like many others had been and would be, but there was nothing simple or ordinary about it; it was the day Thranduil felt it. The final change in the colours all around them, happening once more. Thranduil had his eyes closed when he felt something stir inside him, and it was a squeeze of Bard's fingers on his shoulder at the same time as a strange feeling rushed through him that made him open his eyes.

The difference wasn't big compared to how things looked before, but it was there; this was how the world surrounding them was meant to be.

Thranduil turned, to meet Bard's eyes; they told how he knew what this meant, too.

It wouldn't be long before their bond would be complete. And that moment, whenever it came, would maybe not be special in itself, but would be one to be remembered all the same.

 

Not a month later found Thranduil and Legolas waiting for Bard, there where they had met for the first time, almost a year ago. Around his neck was the scarf Bard had given him, blue and soft and already filled with good memories, from the first day they had spent together to the walks through woods and countryside.

He felt strange, that day, but in a way he couldn't quite put words to.

He was quick to understand why: Thranduil froze when he noticed Bard had walked inside, followed by his children. His eyes widened, copying Bard's, as they took in what they were seeing. Inside him there was a clutter of feelings and sensations and emotions; they all came rushing down on him, for apart from a few strands of hair there was nothing grey about Bard anymore.

From the corner of his eye he saw Bain gathering the children, and speak quietly to them. He thought he saw their eyes widen as well, and smiles cover their faces. 

His full attention was drawn quickly to Bard, for he had taken a step forward.

Had it not been the middle of the day, where anyone could see them through the shelter's uncovered large window, Thranduil would have reached out and kissed him. Maybe he would have cried as well, but he was too proud.

His heart was heavy and warm in his chest, and he couldn't take his eyes off of Bard. It was like the last piece of a complicated puzzle had been put back into place, as if he was given back something he didn't really know had been missing.

He could feel Bard, like he had never before; it was like he ran through his very veins, and what Bard felt, he felt as well. It was all overwhelming, and exciting, and scary, and beautiful, all at once. It was only theirs to share.

And what Thranduil—what _they_ felt what this: they were sure, sure as the sun rises every day and the moon takes its place for the night, that they were two loving souls meant to live together, as one.

They shared a private smile, silent understanding passing between them. 

“Even if the world had stayed grey, I would have loved you,” Bard told him in a murmur, his fingers brushing Thranduil's sleeve. 

Thranduil knew this; he'd always had, for it was no secret that soulmates were not always lovers. And he felt the same, but hearing those words meant something special, and he would forever cherish them.

His answer was bold, but he wasn't afraid, not today, not now: today luck would be on their side. And so Thranduil took Bard's hand in both of his, and brought it up to his lips.

Wasn't it what life was all about? Didn't every day hold its fair amount of risks, big and small?

Maybe the world wouldn't change, and be unkind to them.

Maybe luck would turn them down.

But until then they had time, and the path was clear, and their souls were one.

And this—no war, no laws, nothing and no one could ever tear it apart.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> **Fic Notes:**  
>  • Some of you might remember I mentioned the both of them felt as if they had seen each other before. They had. I left some hints, maybe some of you had figured it out: Thranduil was one of the doctors who took care of Bard after he got injured. He was charged with the bullet under Bard's collarbone, and that's when he saw Bard's necklace. They just never found out. I thought they could have a feeling of déjà-vu, but nothing more, or else it'd be too much. Thranduil took care of hundreds of soldiers, and Bard wasn’t completely there (I mean, he was in pain and soon to be amputated, paying attention to one of the people around him wasn't really a priority). But if you want to imagine they found out someday, no one can stop you :3
> 
> • Bard and Thranduil joined a group for LGBT+ rights in the early 70s, since their children had all left home.
> 
> • Bard is actually a vegetarian. I left some hints throughout the story but I thought it'd be better not to explicitly mention it. I have my headcanons for this fic about it, and it mattered to me, but you can choose to ignore this if it bothers you :)
> 
> • Bard is demisexual, and Thranduil is asexual. Unfortunately those terms didn't exist at the time so I could not use them. Also, I don't headcanon them as being sexually active. Maybe like, once or twice a year, simply because sex isn't something either of them really care that much about. They're more into cuddling by the fire with a cup of tea.
> 
> • For their first anniversary, Thranduil gets Bard a new, more comfortable prosthetic leg. Bard adopts a dog (Samaân) for Thranduil, because obviously he doesn't have enough furry companions.
> 
> • In March 2014, aged 95 and 96, Bard and Thranduil are amongst the first same-sex couples to get married in England. They proposed at the same time, and yes, it was Tilda who chose their suits.
> 
> Well, here we are, I guess?
> 
> It's not really the end, though! I'm thinking about writing drabbles/ficlets about past and future events, but it won't be until a while. I have to focus on other projects, such as my next multi-chap fic, a Fantasy/Roadtrip!AU that I hope to start publishing in May!
> 
> I'll never thank [Manna](http://drawingoddities.tumblr.com) enough, because this story simply wouldn't exist without her and her art (you can find it in the End Notes below). Thank you so much!! <3
> 
> Thank you to my beta [Iza](http://archiveofourown.org/users/Piyo13) for all her work on this fic, and her support. <333 This story wouldn't be the same without you, and honestly, you've been as brave as me! Go check out her fics, they're amazing!
> 
> Thank you to everyone who read and enjoyed this story! Thank you for giving it a chance. It wouldn't have gone this far without you all!
> 
> I can't believe this is over, and I'm as sad as I'm proud I finished this story! What an adventure!
> 
> Your comments always mean the world to me, no matter how short (or how long!!) Don't be shy and let me know what you think! <3 Please ;w; And please don't believe that even after months or years your words would be unwelcomed!
> 
> (You can find me on Tumblr [here](http://barduil.tumblr.com)! :3)

**Author's Note:**

> Listen to the 8tracks mix [here](http://8tracks.com/mylittlekachi/those-colours-we-share#smart_id=dj:14454504).
> 
> My graphics for this fic can be found on my blog, [here](http://evansluke.tumblr.com/post/150075533708/those-colours-we-share-barduil-soulmatesau-set) and [here](http://acebarduil.tumblr.com/post/128054745999/those-colours-we-share-barduil-soulmatesau-read) and [here](http://acebarduil.tumblr.com/post/138504560934/those-colours-we-share-soulmatesau-complete) are the posts if you want to share (one of) them!
> 
> • Inspired by this [adorable doodle comic](http://acebarduil.tumblr.com/post/127375821644/drawingoddities-and-thats-how-legolas-got-a) by the amazing [Manna](http://archiveofourown.org/users/writing_oddities/pseuds/writing_oddities)!  
> • [Here](http://sellleh.tumblr.com/post/132215580899/commission-for-breathingbarduil-its-bard-with)'s some more art by [sellleh](http://sellleh.tumblr.com/)!  
> • And [here](http://piyo13sdoodles.tumblr.com/post/132859051971/happy-birthday-b%C3%A9r%C3%A9nice-based-on-her-fic-those) is another piece of art by [Iza](http://archiveofourown.org/users/Piyo13/)!  
> • And [here](http://flemme-fatale.tumblr.com/post/132886522139/breathingbarduil-happy-birthdayyyyyy-bard-and) is another one, by [Léa](http://flemme-fatale.tumblr.com)!  
> • One more [here](http://artofliloujay.tumblr.com/post/134849452198/modernau-post-warau-bard-commission-for-the), by [artofliloujay](http://artofliloujay.tumblr.com)!  
> • Another by [Beatrice](http://creepyscientist.tumblr.com/), [here](http://creepyscientist.tumblr.com/post/136269888916/lately-ive-been-ive-been-losing-sleep)!  
> • Aaand another [here](http://themirkyking.tumblr.com/post/136973381727/barduil-fic-rec-days-for-breathingbarduil-so-when) by [TheMirkyKing](http://archiveofourown.org/users/TheMirkyKing/)!  
> • Another [here](http://flurgburgler.tumblr.com/post/149973539528/oh-my-gosh-sorry-to-be-posting-this-so-late) by [flurgburgler](http://flurgburgler.tumblr.com/)!
> 
> Graphics per chapter: [1](http://acebarduil.tumblr.com/post/128054745999/those-colours-we-share-barduil-soulmatesau-read) \- [2](http://acebarduil.tumblr.com/post/128554113964/those-colours-we-share-chapter-2-mr-whiskerson) \- [3](http://acebarduil.tumblr.com/post/129072394384/those-colours-we-share-chapter-3-the-scarf) \- [4](http://acebarduil.tumblr.com/post/129577288569/those-colours-we-share-chapter-4-see-you) \- [5](http://acebarduil.tumblr.com/post/130064566524/those-colours-we-share-chapter-5-you-like-him) \- [6](http://acebarduil.tumblr.com/post/130541265394/those-colours-we-share-chapter-6-new-years-eve) \- [7](http://acebarduil.tumblr.com/post/131034501154/those-colours-we-share-chapter-7-hazel-and-blue) \- [8](http://acebarduil.tumblr.com/post/131488596199/those-colours-we-share-chapter-8-home) \- [9](http://acebarduil.tumblr.com/post/131942792064/those-colours-we-share-chapter-9-better-times) \- [10](http://acebarduil.tumblr.com/post/132405828684/those-colours-we-share-chapter-10-feelings) \- [11](http://acebarduil.tumblr.com/post/132864346149/those-colours-we-share-chapter-11-well-be-fine) \- [12](http://acebarduil.tumblr.com/post/133824525994/those-colours-we-share-chapter-12-hope) \- [13](http://acebarduil.tumblr.com/post/134666021989/those-colours-we-share-chapter-13-fear) \- [14](http://acebarduil.tumblr.com/post/135366133499/those-colours-we-share-chapter-14-broken) \- [15](http://acebarduil.tumblr.com/post/136748549324/those-colours-we-share-chapter-15-memories) \- [16](http://acebarduil.tumblr.com/post/137772616154/breathingbarduil-those-colours-we-share) \- [17](http://acebarduil.tumblr.com/post/138504560934/those-colours-we-share-soulmatesau-complete)


End file.
